Broken and Buried
by KCS
Summary: A backstory to Granada's DEVI. What happened to cause not only an enforced holiday for Holmes, but also what influence could be strong enough to enable him to finally bury the drug forever on the sands of the Cornish coast? Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: The suggestion for this fic came from **_**Igiveup**_** just after I joined this site – at the time I doubted I could do it any kind of justice, and I confess to still being slightly leery about trying it. But she encouraged me to attempt it, and it has been bugging me for some time, so I decided to give it a whirl and see what happens.**

**I am drawing more heavily off the Granada version of DEVI, not the Canon, because there are some specific instances in that episode that may play a vital role in the plot.**

**I don't believe there is anything else you need to know…oh, this chapter will be in Watson's POV, probably the rest of it in Holmes's. **

**Then on with it, and wish me luck!**

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I have stated elsewhere in these scattered memoirs of my adventures spent in the company of the world's foremost consulting detective, that in the spring of 1897 Sherlock Holmes's constitution was in danger of giving way completely under the strain of an intense amount of work. This, I must confess, was a more than slight twisting of the truth.

The reader may be shocked to learn that I have occasionally, when necessary, changed the facts of a case to either protect the identity of our clients or simply because the true facts of the case were simply not fit for public consumption in such a family periodical as the _Strand Magazine_.

This was one such instance.

Holmes himself has undertaken to write a portion of this particular memoir under my request, for the better portion of the tale took place within the confines of that most remarkable of minds, and we have mutually agreed to put down the true facts concerning the time immediately preceding the case I have rather adventurously titled _The Adventure of the Devil's Foot_.

The trouble that culminated a few weeks later in our nearly perishing by the hand of that remarkable drug known as _Radix Pedis Diaboli_ began in the very wet and rainy spring of that year, 1897. London had been in the grips of rainstorms since mid-February, and in consequence the entire city seemed to be at a standstill, taking cover each day until the rain ceased, which only happened once every fortnight or so.

Holmes had been at the peak of his career after his return – no case of any high standing, and very few of any consequence whatsoever, were not brought to his attention during those golden years of spring 1894 to the winter of 1896. We had traveled practically the entire civilised world by that point in time, our adventures keeping us so completely busy we rarely had time for anything else.

Sherlock Holmes, of course, was very much loving this hectic pace we grew accustomed to in those golden years of our partnership – we wanted for nothing since the cases and clients were numerous and frequently well-to-do, and our own relationship had deepened into the type of affectionate regard that can only come with fifteen years of close companionship.

It seemed that we were suspended in immortal time, for only rarely did something occur to shatter our complacently happy world. To all appearances we led a charmed life, the both of us, always dancing the edge of danger and always surviving – perhaps not unscathed but definitely together, invincible to the last.

But in the winter of 1896, our steady stream of business began to gradually taper down. The novelty of Holmes's return to life had now faded along with the clients, and with the onset of a very warm and wet spring came a dark fit of deep depression for my companion.

The reader will not blame me for dreading such a period of boredom and depression from my colleague, knowing full well where his weakness lay, even though he no longer craved the dreaded drug.

Holmes had previously used cocaine only to stimulate his mind in times of boredom; he never took it while on a case, for that was stimulation enough for his extraordinary mental powers. And thus, because of the immense explosive growth of his practice between '94 and '97, he used the drug only rarely.

He had given me his word, halfway through '95, after a series of events which I shall not here relate, that he would never use the drug again after its influence had caused him to make a mistake that nearly cost us both our lives. And for two years now, the syringe and its dreadful contents had lain unused and rusting in his locked desk drawer.

I refused to check them, only seeing them when Holmes opened the drawer for something, but apparently he had indeed given up the drug for good, thereby earning my complete trust. And to my knowledge, in two years he had used it only on three occasions – and after each of them he offered sincere apologies to me for breaking his promise.

The dosage was, after all, only a seven-percent solution; rather weak, and it was even legal to buy it in London in our day. I was then satisfied with his promise of only occasional lapses.

Until that awful day in '97. We had finished up a very straining and very dangerous case three weeks ago, and in the time since had not had work of any kind, not even a whisper from Scotland Yard.

This was the first time we had gone so long without a case, and I will confess that my mind turned in the direction I have been discussing when the days turned into weeks with no case, no client, and no mental challenge.

Holmes had gone nearly a year – ten months, actually – without the drug, even going so far as to refuse morphine when injured on this past case, due to the fact that he wished to keep his promise to me. I respected my companion for it, as well as feeling deeply touched by the gesture.

But no man is perfect, and I was very much worried that even my influence was not going to be sufficient enough to keep him from the siren song of the cocaine during this period of inactivity.

And as it turned out, my fear was only too well-founded.

I had, between cases, volunteered to work an afternoon shift at one of the poorer hospitals in the eastern part of London. Bronchitis, pneumonia, and influenza had a heyday with weather such as ours and my aid was very gratefully received. But this meant that I was absent from Baker Street for extended periods of time.

Sherlock Holmes was in a black depression, had been for over two weeks now, and perhaps in retrospect it was not the best idea for me to leave him without companionship for so long at a time. But when I was in the flat, he paid little or no attention to me but merely moved languidly from his bed to the couch, once in a while to the table to pick at his food, and then back to his bed again.

But he was not a child, and I would not treat him as a worried parent, hovering round as if in fear that he would break his word to me. I had more faith in my Holmes than that.

In consequence, I can only thank a just Providence that I returned early that miserable, wet night to our rooms – for it was only the grace of God that sent me home three hours early from my shift because of a lack of patients.

I arrived Baker Street in a downpour, having foolishly forgotten my umbrella that afternoon due to a mocking little burst of sunlight before the clouds had returned, and I was surprised to see that there appeared to be no fire going as I walked into the sitting room, thoroughly chilled.

I shivered, struggling out of my coat and feeling my old wounds aching with the rapid changes in weather, and glanced round the room to see no sign of Sherlock Holmes. I hastily went to stoke up the fire and then headed for the table to pour myself a drink.

I halted on the instant as I saw that Holmes's desk drawer was open, the key still in the lock as it stood ajar.

I still to this day am ashamed for my breach of privacy, but I was afraid, and so I opened the drawer.

The Moroccan case was gone.

He had left the case and its contents in there as always, for he was a pack-rat in every sense of the word; and though the idea of having the temptation right there locked in his drawer bothered me in the extreme, it was not my place to remove it.

Now it was gone.

And because the key was still in the lock, Holmes had not been expecting me to return so quickly; he thought he had plenty of time to use the drug and return it, time for the cocaine to wear off before I returned.

_How many days had he been doing this while I was away?_

I clenched my jaw, my anger and sense of betrayal taking over my common sense, and I stormed over to Holmes's bedroom door and flung it open – it was unlocked, yet another indication that he had not been expecting my early return.

But I halted, my anger fleeing me for the moment, at the sight of him curled up upon the bed, shivering far too violently to be merely hallucinating or paranoiac as I knew cocaine sometimes caused – something was wrong.

In two strides I was at his side, grabbing the case from the bedside table and inspecting the syringe and bottles.

The syringe was half-full – but the bottle to fill it from was more than half-empty. My throat and mouth went dry as dust.

"Holmes!"

My voice seemed to rouse him, though his eyes were incredibly dilated and vacant, not really seeing my face, and he was moving about more restlessly than I had ever seen him in any cocaine-induced stupor, moaning and clutching his stomach as if in pain.

"Holmes, look at me!" I turned his face to meet mine and saw recognition spark in the icy grey depths.

"Did you take all this?" I demanded, my voice shaking.

"N-not all t-today," he gasped, grabbing for my hand convulsively.

I saw fear behind the confusion in those dull eyes and realised he had misjudged the dosage, _badly_ misjudged it, and that he was now aware of the fact. Even if he had not taken the half bottle today alone, as I had feared at first glance, he still had taken too much, more than he ever had before. And since he had not taken the drug in almost a year, the effects were far worse than they ever had been in the past.

He was clinging to me tightly, and I could see genuine fear in his face, which worried me even more. I hastily sat and took his pulse, which was racing far too fast. Suddenly his grip clenched and he started to choke.

"Holmes!"

He shook, convulsing, his eyes frantic as he struggled to bring in air.

Dear God, he _had_ overdosed. Respiratory failure was the usual cause of death in slight overdoses, cardiac arrest in the severe ones.

"Holmes, breathe! NOW!" I almost shouted, frightened more than he was.

I lifted his shoulders from the bed, holding him immobile as he struggled.

"Listen to me! Stop struggling, count to three, and breathe, man!"

His face was turning a dark red, his pale grey eyes standing out in terrified starkness as he begged me wordlessly for help.

"Don't you _dare_ die on me again!" I snapped fiercely, gripping him in an angrily tight hold. "Breathe, now! Slowly!"

I had just begun to run through the artificial respiration techniques in my mind in preparation for the minutes to come when he gasped and choked, finally drawing a ragged breath.

"That's it – again, Holmes!"

He finally got a lungful of oxygen, choking as the convulsions started to slow, his face going dead-pale again. I held him tightly, badly frightened myself, until he was breathing normally again and then laid him gently back onto the bed, changing the sweat-soaked pillow out for a clean one.

He shivered, trying to pull the blankets up round himself but his hands were erratically twitching and I did it for him. Then I headed for my medical bag.

As I had feared, his temperature was up very high, but the fever was obviously alternating with severe chills. He was still moving restlessly, occasionally murmuring something unintelligible.

As he shuddered, moaning and curling up into a miserable ball, I in a blind fit of anger broke the syringe in two and hurled it and the bottle across the room. The action made my nerves slightly calmer but not my heart.

He had broken his word to me.

And he had obviously had no intention of confessing that he had given in to the temptation – which was worse than if he had just blatantly done the deed. He had timed it carefully enough that I would never have known…

…until I came back – if I had come back at my normal time today he would have been dead.

The anger surged up within me again as I bent over him once more, but I firmly pushed it down under a mask of professionalism. Broken promises or no, he was still a very sick man; and what's more, he was a sick friend.

I checked his racing pulse again and piled another blanket on top of his shivering form, seating myself beside him, feeling my face draw in with worry despite my anger at his deception and betrayal of my implicit trust.

His haunted eyes fastened upon my face, though I did not know if he were seeing me or drug-induced nightmares. He shivered violently, convulsions seizing him and making him tremble.

But from the way he fought one hand free to clasp mine, fear making his grip almost crushing, it appeared he was apparently lucid enough to recognise me.

It is hard to remain angry with a man who is teetering on the edge of dying, clinging to one for help.

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**_To be continued...reviews are very appreciated as always!_**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks so much to all you who reviewed - I had no idea the story would be so popular! I had meant to write and post this chapter yesterday, but real life beckoned and I was only home for a total of, I think three hours...so anyhow, here 'tis. And it's still in Watson's POV, btw.**

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For the better part of four hours my full attention and efforts were mainly in keeping my foolish friend merely breathing. I had never had to deal with a drug overdose in my medical career; having read of such things was one matter – dealing first-hand with them was quite another.

I knew that respiratory failure was the thing that would kill a man, but the other symptoms were, although less fatal, almost as dreadful. Holmes was a very sick man, all through that long evening and into the stormy night.

He was completely miserable, not just from the pain and discomfort but from the personal nature of the later symptoms, embarrassing him completely that I had to care for him. I really had no sympathy whatsoever for his embarrassment, however, as my anger at what he had done continued to roil under my calm physician's exterior.

Finally, around five in the morning, the drug appeared to have made its way out of his body, at least for the most part, and he fell into an exhausted sleep. I knew enough to know that as long as the drug were out of his body, there would be no further danger of his asphixiating, resulting in death. He might be sick, but in no serious jeopardy.

When I had assured myself that his breathing had normalised for good and that his fever had retreated to a low-grade temperature, I finally allowed myself to slump down in a chair beside his bed, trying to get a grip on my mind and emotions.

It was not the overdose, frightening though it was to me, that was what bothered me the most. Holmes had faltered in his resolve before, and I had known all along that the demon was merely dormant, not banished. I had never expected him, quite honestly, to abstain for this long, and I had been inordinately proud of him for it.

It was not the relapse that I was so angry about – it was the fact that he had broken his word and had no intention of telling me he had done so. After the horrible events of that week in 1895, when that cocaine-clouded mistake had cost us both so dearly, he had given me his word of honour that he would never use the drug again, and he had been fully willing to go along with every idea I had of occupying his mind by other methods of recreation.

But after all this, he had not had the necessary control to resist this three-week period of depression, had refused any offer of aid I had given him to get his mind off the inactivity, trusting the drug to relieve his boredom instead of my pleading.

That hurt more than all the rest – the drug was more important to him than his promises to me. Or at least was a stronger influence upon him than I was.

Holmes stirred uneasily, shivering upon the bed, obviously in the grips of some cocaine-induced dream, and I placed another blanket over him, clenching my jaw, trying to control the hurt and anger that were threatening to displace my care for a patient.

He quieted under my touch, his drawn face relaxing, and I felt a slight bit of my anger fade momentarily.

And while I was still under a bit of control, I left him and went to the sitting room to retrieve what information I had about drug abuse and its effects. I still remained shocked at the number of physicians who were totally unconcerned about drugs such as morphine, laudanum, and cocaine, some even going so far as to say they were not really as dangerous as was reported.

I had seen over the years first-hand just how dangerous they could be, destroying the thought processes, albeit temporarily, of the most brilliant man in London. And how dangerous cocaine was, was evidenced in the fact that the strongest-willed mind in all England was not capable of resisting its call. A frightening thought indeed.

I finally realised, after two hours of perusal, that I had absolutely no idea of how to deal with a cocaine overdose. I had entertained some fond thought back in '95 that my influence had been enough to break him of the drug's hold and that he had been cured out of his regard for me. Obviously that was not the case, or at least no longer was.

Holmes would never get over that drug unless he wanted to. And obviously he either was not capable of doing so, which I firmly disbelieved, or he simply did not want to badly enough.

I slammed the books shut in frustrated anger. Much as I despised myself for my own incompetence, I realised it was time to call in another physician, at least to show me what to do in the days to come – I had no idea what Holmes would act like, if brain damage had been done, what symptoms of withdrawal he was likely to show – I had never had to deal with something of the sort before.

I rubbed my head wearily, going to the window to watch a watery sun rise over the grey landscape, wondering who I could trust with the information that the world's greatest consulting detective had overdosed on a common topical anesthetic. I cringed to think what the tabloids would say if the information got out – no, it had to be someone who knew both of us personally and whom I could trust.

Agar.

Dr. Moore Agar – the Harley Street physician – he had been a friend of a former client, and he had worked with us on a poisoning case back in late '95. The man was honest and upstanding, and had at the time been quite respectful of Holmes's abilities and also (I had been rather gratified to learn) of some of the strong opinions I had formed about drugs in general, even relatively harmless ones.

I could trust him. I would go to see him this very morning.

I went back into the bedroom, to find Sherlock Holmes drowsily blinking about with a gaze that was far weaker than his normal sharp perception. Even though my anger was still boiling in my mind, I desperately prayed that there would be no lasting damage to him, especially no brain damage, due to his indiscretion.

"What are you feeling like, Holmes?"

I was shocked at how cold my voice sounded, even to my ears. But if Holmes noticed the oddity he made no comment, just peered feebly at me from under the pile of blankets.

"Like – I have been a fool," he whispered.

"I would definitely agree with that sentiment, but that is not what I meant and you know it."

This time my tone caught his wandering attention and his brows furrowed into a dark line in his pale face.

He started to say something, stopped, and merely whispered, "Rather tired."

"You need to sleep," I replied coolly, "are you cold, in pain at all?"

"No," he said softly.

"Then try to get some rest. Call me or Mrs. Hudson if you need something," I said, my own mind uneasy by the cold, unfeeling tone of my voice.

Holmes's eyes filled with something I could not place, but they closed without his saying a word to me. I turned down the gas and then left the room, resisting the urge to slam the door or throw something. Childish behaviour was _not_ the way to deal with this.

I shut the door and leant against it for a moment, realising now how very exhausted I truly was, with the long day at the hospital yesterday and then that private drama. But I had no time to waste upon sleep – I had to go see Agar before his consulting room filled with patients.

I performed a hasty change and toilette, afterwards going downstairs to inform Mrs. Hudson that Holmes was very ill and that he should eat if he was hungry when he awoke. The good woman cocked a quizzical eyebrow at me, glancing over my appearance.

"You were up all night with him, weren't you, Doctor?" the lady asked, reaching up to straighten my cravat.

I felt my face crease in a smile for the first time in twenty-four hours at her incessant mothering.

"I am going out now, Mrs. Hudson, but if Holmes asks tell him I shall be back in a few hours," I replied, taking my coat and hat and grabbing an umbrella. I had no intention of repeating my mistake of yesterday and getting caught in the rain again.

"Wait, Doctor, let me call you a cab – you shouldn't be walking about in this weather with that leg of yours!" she called, hurrying past me to the door.

"I am perfectly fine, Mrs. Huds –"

"Nonsense, Doctor. Just you sit down and have a cup of that tea while I call a cab for you."

I smiled again and poured myself a steaming drink, downing it in two gulps, rather grateful indeed for the woman's kind caring for both of us over so many years.

She came bustling back a moment later, trying to force a plate of scones upon me which I had to refuse – my nerves were too tight to leave room for solid food – and a few minutes later I found myself in a cab, trying to shield my face from the drizzle that had started. The weather matched my mood, and by the time I reached Agar's stately offices in Harley Street I was thoroughly discouraged and tired.

It was barely a quarter of eight, but I knew full well that physicians were trained to be awoken at all hours, and so I had expected no less when after I rang the bell I was admitted to a waiting room by a maid who took my card and told me that the Doctor would be just a few moments.

I sat rather nervously, feeling ill-at-ease in Agar's lavish surroundings and trim rooms, wondering if the man was still as amiable as he had been a year and a half ago. I slumped back in my chair and closed my eyes for a moment, only to be startled when the door opened to admit the man himself.

"Hello, Dr. Watson – it's a pleasure to see you again," he said cordially, shaking my hand and motioning me into his inner office.

Agar was a tall, confidently reassuring type, dark-haired and clean-shaven. His attire was as impeccably groomed as one would expect from a high-ranking Harley Street physician, and even at this early hour he was immaculately put together.

Further making me nervous as I had no doubt that _I_ looked a proper fright.

"Do sit down, Doctor, and tell me what brings you here at this hour of the morning?" the man said courteously, waving me to a chair opposite his desk.

I walked round and sat rather heavily, looking up to see the man glancing at me with an appraising eye.

"Not here about yourself, are you? You look as if you hadn't slept at all last night and you're limping as well," he said kindly.

I sighed; I had forgotten the man was nearly as observant as Holmes.

"You are right on both counts, Agar, but I am not here for myself," I began, a trifle uneasily.

"Is it Mr. Holmes then?" the man's dark eyes looked pointedly at me.

I nodded.

"I think you could do with a drink, Watson, please do help yourself and tell me what the man has done now. Not the drugs again?"

I dropped the decanter and whirled upon my colleague.

"How did you –"

"Easy, man, you're as jumpy as a cat. Now sit down, I can't have you collapsing in my consulting room."

I obeyed, and the man glanced at me with concern.

"Doctor, every reader of your stories knows of Mr. Holmes's one weakness in an otherwise sterling character. And it was obvious to me when last we met, based upon your emphatic renouncing of any and all drugs other than absolute medical necessities that you had had many unpleasant experiences with said drugs. Then, when you show up in my consulting room unannounced –"

I flushed with embarrassment, but the man waved it off without preamble.

"Which is perfectly fine, Doctor, but when you do, obviously in no fit health yourself and worried sick over something - and also quite angered, judging from the fire in your eyes, it takes none of your friend's deductions to say that Mr. Holmes has finally committed a grievous indiscretion. Am I correct?"

I nodded.

"He has. And I freely admit that I am at a loss as to what to do," I said, "which is why I came to you – I knew you could be trusted to not let word get out."

"Overdose, then."

"Yes, yesterday afternoon. I barely found him in time."

"Respiratory failure, then? It went that far?"

I nodded again.

"The other usual symptoms as well?"

"Yes, finally this morning around six the danger was past, but he is obviously still very ill, disoriented."

"That is perfectly normal."

"You have had experience with such matters then?" I asked eagerly.

The man's honest face wore a sincerely concerned expression as he leaned forward to speak to me.

"Yes, I have had a few. You have not, I take it?"

"With its usage, yes – never with an overdose," I admitted.

"I am only surprised it has not happened before now; it was inevitable," the man muttered, fumbling round for a tablet of paper. I handed him the ever-present journal from my pocket.

"Thank you. Well I have to tell you up front, Watson, that this will not be a very pleasant few weeks for you."

"I doubt it could be worse than last night was," I replied dryly.

The man's dark eyes narrowed.

"It could get _very_ _much_ worse," he stated pointedly.

I swallowed.

"His recovery from the overdose is one matter, the matter of getting him _off_ the drug is entirely another," Agar said calmly, beginning to write in my notebook, "and I warn you that if he does not _want_ to give it up, he most certainly will not."

"Then how –"

Agar dropped his pencil, fixing me with a piercing gaze that made me unaccountably want to squirm.

"Dr. Watson. There is only one influence I can think of in Mr. Holmes's life that has any chance of being a greater pull on him than that of cocaine."

I blinked.

"The final decision will be up to him, yes – but _you_ are the only person in the world that could make him want to give it up for good," Agar said calmly.

"What do you think I have been trying to do for fifteen years?" I almost snapped, my exhaustion making my tone harsh.

"I am not faulting you for failure, Doctor – for there is no failure but rather great success in your weaning him from its grip," the man replied calmly, "I am merely saying that you are the only person who would be able to continue that work. Holmes must make the decision to give it up himself – but you are the one who will have to push him to do so."

I slumped back in my chair.

"How exactly am I supposed to do that, Agar?" I asked tiredly, rubbing my temples.

Agar paused thoughtfully.

"I am afraid that you are the only one who could truly answer that, Watson," he said at last, turning those piercing eyes upon me with a slight twinkle, "you are the only doctor in London who is a specialist in the field of Sherlock Holmes."

I stared at Agar but felt the corners of my mouth twitch despite my hurt and anger at the man under our discussion.

"Very well. Tell me what I need to do about the overdose and the coming withdrawal symptoms," I replied determinedly, "and I shall do my utmost with the rest."

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**_To be continued...reviews are still very appreciated!_**


	3. Chapter 3

I sat moodily in the cab, watching a small stream of water steadily pour off the roof in a small rivulet, occasionally turning into a splattering shower as we rounded a corner in the dreary rain. My thoughts matched the gloomy weather, as I ran over in my mind what Agar had told me.

Holmes's recovery could be quick or slow, dependent mostly upon his inner strength and will. That was not what worried me, it was the other information the specialist had told me. Not only were the withdrawal symptoms he described very unpleasant, but the fact remained that there would _be_ no withdrawal to deal with if I could not get Holmes to renounce that awful substance once and for all.

If Holmes did not want to give it up, then nothing would induce him to, not even me.

Most obviously _not_ me, since I had already failed where I had thought I succeeded.

For the first time in quite a long time, I was actually dreading returning to the flat I had come to call home after so many years there, and when we pulled up with a loud splash in front of the door I sat for a moment, not wanting to get out.

But I sternly pulled myself together, mentally chastening myself for my childish behaviour; I had already spent two hours exchanging ideas with Agar and had then taken myself off to my club for an hour or so just to collect my thoughts, not wanting to return to Baker Street in the least.

But I had been gone too long already, and after paying the cabbie I went in. I was thoroughly chilled by this time, and as I shed my soaking outerwear in the vestibule Mrs. Hudson came bustling out of the back, exclaiming over my condition and the wetness of the hall.

"How is he?" I interrupted at a tactful point in the flurry of ministrations.

"He had some tea and a good luncheon, actually, Doctor," the woman said.

I stared at her.

"He must have made rather a quick recovery, Doctor, was he really that ill?"

I felt my brows knit as I glanced up the stairs as if to see the man himself through the walls.

"Yes, he was," I said abruptly, turning to mount the steps.

"Shall I fix you some nourishment, too, Doctor? You look a little ill yourself, if you don't mind my saying so, sir," Mrs. Hudson called up after me.

"No, thank you, I am not hungry," I mechanically answered, clenching my fists at the sight of the lights on in the sitting room.

I barely registered her indignant squawking before I pushed the door open and stood in the doorway.

Sherlock Holmes was reclining in his chair, comfortably reading a newspaper and smoking his pipe, for all the world as if nothing had happened the last twenty-four hours. His face was unnaturally pale and his movements a little listless, but other than that he appeared to be making a swift rebound from his narrow escape.

For some strange reason that fact made me more than a little angry.

He glanced up a trifle awkwardly as I entered the room, putting my stick back into the stand near the sideboard.

"Still raining, eh?" was his one stunning opening observation.

I wanted nothing more than to draw near to the fire, for I was freezing cold. But I most definitely did not want to be in any close proximity with that man at that moment in time. But finally my body voiced a loud protest over my pride, accompanied by a long shiver, and I reluctantly approached the crackling flames.

"How are you feeling?"

I was again put ill at ease by the detached, cold voice that was masquerading as mine.

Holmes eyed me a little nervously.

"Better now," he said, inspecting his pipe very, very closely.

"Good."

I knew if I remained there a moment longer I would completely lose what little self-control I had left; when I grew tired I grew far less tolerant, I knew the fact quite well. And now I was exhausted, my patience completely at an end.

I turned hastily to leave.

"Watson, wait!"

I took a deep breath, stopped, turned round to face him.

"What."

Holmes fidgeted nervously, folding and refolding the newspaper before standing a little unsteadily and walking the few paces over to face me.

"I – I'm sorry," he said directly.

"I should certainly hope you are," I snapped.

My vehemence obviously took him by surprise, for he took a tentative step backwards and I saw the beginnings of that familiar defensive venom start up in his steely eyes.

"What would you have me do, fall down and beg for forgiveness?" he snapped right back at me.

Agar had said irritability, nervousness, even unstable and possibly violent mood swings might be part of the recovery process – I needed to not foment trouble with him if I had any hope of changing him…

But even as my mind was screaming a warning to me to stop speaking, to leave before I caused more damage, my mouth was moving, too fast for my brain to stop as all the pent-up anger and hurt of the last however many hours it had been suddenly came bubbling to the surface with enough pressure to seem to blow my mind apart.

"I doubt that you would ever have the grace to do so!" I said, feeling my face darken even as I spoke.

His eyes flashed a grey fire at me.

"You are being ridiculous, Watson."

"I – ridiculous!"

"Yes, ridiculous! You are acting like a child – and treating me like one as well!"

"If you would act as a grown man, I would never feel the need!"

"My life is none of your affair!"

"That is rather a good thing, since I would have none of it!"

Holmes's face turned another shade of red, and he took a step forward to tower over me, forcing me to look upward at his angry face.

"You don't intimidate me in the least, Holmes!" I snapped angrily, glaring up at him, "one cannot be intimidated by a man who breaks his word of honour the first opportunity he gets to justify doing so!"

Holmes's face was now nearly purple, his voice eerily calm and cold and detached.

"Such a statement from any other man, Doctor, would have been grounds for me to give him a sound thrashing," he said dangerously.

"Oh? Then pretend I am some other man, then – obviously I am no more to you than that if you would in such a cavalier fashion break a promise made on what you thought was my death-bed two years ago!" I nearly shouted, cursing my own weakness as my voice broke.

Holmes's face suddenly drained of colour, but his manner was as belligerent as ever.

"You act as if I had planned the thing from beginning to end with the sole intent of hurting you – that is a most childish way to perceive the matter!" he snapped defensively.

My neck was now aching from having to look up at him, but in the process of our argument he had, consciously or unconsciously, backed me up against the wall and I had nowhere to go, nowhere to step back to relieve the tension.

"You nearly _died_, you bloody fool!" I finally exclaimed angrily.

"You are acting as if I had tried to commit suicide – it was a pure accident –"

"I don't care what it was! You broke your promise, Holmes, and nothing you can say will change that! And not only did you break your word, but you went behind my back to use that – that drug while you knew I was away! If I hadn't come back early you would have died, all alone in your bedroom. And you say that I am being ridiculous!"

Holmes listened to this tirade with a dangerously calm demeanour, looking down at me.

"It was an accident, Doctor," he began, putting a remonstrating hand upon my shoulder.

I shoved it away as if it were burning me, glaring at him.

"Don't you dare touch me!"

"Something needs to knock some sense into your obstinate idiocy!" he growled, ignoring me and grabbing my shoulders, actually shaking me.

I heard Agar's warning about instability ring through my mind and began to regret losing my temper in such a fashion.

"Take your hands off me!" I snapped in a fury, shoving him away from me.

I completely forgot about his weakened condition; never would I have succeeded in breaking his hold if he had been in his full health. As it was, he staggered backwards, clutching at the back of the couch for support, his eyes flashing daggers at me.

"Holmes, calm down, you're not yourself –"

But it was too late for that kind of remonstrance, the damage had been done, and I had done it. Holmes came back toward me, his eyes flashing, and I could see in his face that he was not really completely lucid. I had undone any mental healing that might have happened in my absence, and the lingering effects of that drug were controlling him, not his formidable mind.

"Holmes, stop it, you must calm down –"

"How dare you!"

I swallowed hard – knowing that it was the vestiges of the cocaine talking and not really my friend did not make this any easier.

"You are not well, Holmes, let me help you –"

"I want nothing from you, Doctor!"

"Holmes –"

"_Especially_ from you!"

I barely saw his hand come up and blocked the weakened blow with ease – he was in no shape to be in a temper of this kind – my eyes stinging at the thought of his magnificent brain reduced to this. Never before in fifteen years had he raised his hand to me in anything, only rarely had we even had verbal fights, never physical.

But it was not Holmes but that infernal drug doing this. I blocked the swing, grabbing his wrist and holding it to his side, all the while regretting losing my temper as I had – it had done no good and possibly a great deal of harm.

But even as I held his arms close to his sides amid his furious swearing, I saw some of that blind rage leave his clouded eyes to be replaced with uncertainty and then sudden sweeping realisation.

He gasped as a man waking from a nightmare and nearly jumped back from me out of my restraining grip, staring at me as if in horror.

"Holmes?" I asked worriedly, wary of another sudden emotional swing.

"Watson?"

The rage was gone from his voice, and it was more like it had been last night, weak and uncertain and not a little frightened.

I took a cautious step forward.

Then a long jump, just in time to catch him as he wordlessly collapsed, unconscious from weakness and the strain of becoming too agitated so soon after such a crisis.

As I set his thin form on the couch, I cursed my own lack of self-control – this was my fault for instigating the temper war. Because of my hot temper, he had become too excited and now was having a setback. The fact that I knew I had just cause for my anger did nothing to excuse my atrocious conduct.

I lifted his limp head and pushed a cushion under it, then went to fetch several blankets and covered him warmly. Then I took his temperature – as I had feared, it was up slightly once more, and his pulse was racing.

What had I done!

As I straightened up, I replaced the thermometer in my bag, my glance falling upon my own syringes. The sight of the familiar articles, used for both good and evil by the two of us in different ways, brought the anger and hurt back to the fore of my mind once more.

I took a long, shuddering breath, suddenly realising just how very tired I was. I slumped down on the floor beside the couch, too exhausted to get up and go to my chair, trying to calm my hopelessly whirling mind, feeling my eyes burn with helpless, hopeless, unshed tears.

What was I going to do?

* * *

**_To be continued..._**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Until further notice, I am switching over to Holmes's POV.**

* * *

I could never remember having such a headache – such a complete body ache, as a matter of fact. Even after a lengthy case, I had never felt such painful weariness as I felt just now. I wanted to just sink into the darkness and sleep for days upon end.

But my body evidently had other plans, for its pain was making itself felt very vocally, and I spent the better part of five minutes lying quietly, categorising where I was and what had happened.

Then the events slowly started to come back to my muddled brain – and how muddled it was! The fact that I could very much tell a marked difference in my thought processes frightened me to no end – what if the drug had permanently impaired my powers?

I had never much worried about the idea before, but then I had never overdosed on the drug before. It had been a pure accident – I had certainly not _meant_ to risk my health and my life in such a fashion, I had not even realised I was taking too much until it was too late to rectify the error.

I vaguely remembered eating lunch, feeling somewhat better, and sitting by the fire…then Watson had come back, and he was angry about what I had done. No wonder, either, I certainly deserved it.

But halfway through my apology my head had started to spin and I only could recall bits and pieces of what had happened after that…it was as if my mind were a book and someone had torn a few pages out of one of the chapters. What had occurred?

I opened my eyes, realising that I was warmly covered by blankets and lying on the sitting room couch.

Then I glanced down and saw something that made my heart sink, realising I had done something terrible.

Watson was slumped against the couch, obviously fast asleep, his open medical case beside him – for some reason he had had to use his supplies on me, evidently…I could vaguely remember feeling dreadfully ill…and no doubt he was exhausted, for I did remember, most vividly, him coming in and saving me from suffocating, on more than one occasion last night.

But that was not what arrested my attention – it was the fact that it took no powers of perception whatsoever to see the faintest traces of tears upon his pained, lined face.

What had I done? I could not remember a thing clearly – was this fog ever going to leave my brain? Would I even recover my powers?

The thoughts frightened me to no end, and in my panic I started to move, falling back with a moan as pain shot through my head and aching limbs, still sore from the convulsions of last night.

But my pathetic noise had woken him on the instant – he was such a light sleeper – and he scrambled to his feet worriedly.

"Holmes? Are you in pain?"

That horrible coldness that had been in his voice had faded slightly, and I could see genuine concern in his hazel eyes as he bent over me.

"Not really," I said, wishing I did not sound so confoundedly weak, "just a little sore, that is all."

He breathed a sigh of relief, and I saw gladness shoot through his features before that stony mask I had seen him wear earlier dropped back over them, puzzling me greatly.

But now, bits and pieces of the last few hours began to vaguely come filtering back into my consciousness, and I could remember losing my temper in a heated argument of some kind…but more than that I could not remember…

As my brows furrowed in frustration, Watson pulled the blankets up round me and spoke calmly.

"You don't remember much of the last few hours, do you?"

"No," I whispered, trying to think.

Was that relief I saw on his face? Or regret? Or a combination of both?

Suddenly…suddenly the whole sordid thing came back and struck me like a ton of brick. I sat up with a sharp gasp, alarming my friend who tried to push me back.

"Holmes, lie down!"

"Watson, I –"

"Lie down, you idiot!" he snapped worriedly, pushing me back into the pillow.

I moaned and turned away, facing the back of the couch in my shame – what had I done? How could I have done such a thing?

Never before, even under a fairly heavy dose of the drug, _never_ had my mind lapsed enough to allow me to even _contemplate_ raising a hand to the man who was now gently shaking my shoulder, asking if I was feeling quite well.

I shook my head wordlessly, wanting to be left alone with my shame, knowing anything I would say would only make matters worse. Everything he had said was true. I had broken my word, and that was the bottom line. I had promised him to abstain from the drug, and I had gone back on that promise.

And much as I would have liked to have just brushed the matter under the rug and forgotten about it, I knew it could not be. I had already done a good deal of harm to my friend, destroying his trust in me for one thing and putting him through rather a bad fright for another, not to mention my breaking a vow I had solemnly sworn to him two years ago.

And while every fibre of my being wanted to tell him I was sorry and it would not happen again, I knew that it would be a lie – I even now was wishing for the escape that the drug brought to my mind, how nice it would be to just slip away from the wreck I had made of my life at this moment…

Having taken the drug twice, taken it just twice, had reawakened the long-dormant appetite. I had not been strong enough to resist the temptation, and now I was again enslaved by that infernal cocaine. Watson had worked so hard to help me with the matter, and now I had undone all the work he had been trying to do for fifteen years. But much as I wanted to promise him I would not do it again, I knew I was not capable of keeping that promise.

Not that he would believe my word anyway, for a long, long while at any rate, because of my deception in this matter.

His hand had not left my shoulder, and I became aware that it was trembling slightly. I wanted to just sink through the floor, but I refused to give in to that emotion of fear and shame. If I was going to be ruled by an emotion in this weakened state, it was not going to be that one.

I turned back over to face him, and was startled to see the unnatural brightness of his eyes.

"I – I'm sorry," I whispered again, for the second time today.

"I know," he replied softly.

Still not a sign of forgiveness, but no longer was there that anger I had seen roiling under his calm exterior all the morning. Well-deserved anger, I would freely admit – but he was not one to succumb to rage very easily, and such outbursts were extremely rare.

But I was too tired to think further upon the matter, too ashamed of what I had done to even _want_ to think of it, and so I closed my eyes and in a few minutes had drifted back off into a deep, foggy sleep.

* * *

_"I won't allow it, Holmes; you've been ill all throughout this case and it's getting worse."_

_"You have very little choice in the matter, Watson," I snapped, curtly motioning him out the door._

_"You are in no condition to go about the country like this, lying in wait for a dangerous criminal!" he insisted, his eyes narrowed with worry._

_"I am perfectly fine, Doctor, I am coping more than adequately."_

_"Do you think I don't know what you've been using to help you __**cope**__, Holmes!" he cried as I pushed him out the door and into the driving storm._

_"When I need a medical opinion, Doctor, I will ask for it. Now be a sport, old chap, the game's afoot!"_

_My mind was filled with the thrill of the chase, the end of the case was drawing ever nearer, and such a triumph it would be too! _

_Some dim part of my fogged brain voiced a meek protest that Watson might be right, that I was not thinking clearly enough…_

_No, I was perfectly fine. Now, all we had to do was wait for the criminals to emerge and make their way across the moor._

_They did, but not on foot as I had thought – why had I not seen the horses hidden in the trees? Was I really slipping that much?_

_No matter, there was a small trap standing in the inn's courtyard and I appropriated it, pushing Watson up into it despite his protests and jumping up to take the reins._

_"Holmes, you can't drive this, not in a storm and when your mind is full of that infernal drug!" he shouted above the wind, trying to take the reins from me as we pulled out at a gallop after the men on horseback, fighting their way along the road against the driving rain._

_"Watson, just keep your gun at the ready, I am perfectly capable!"_

_"You are not, you're driving too fast – there's an embankment all along this road!"_

_I ignored him, he was merely being his usual over-protective self. Surely I could catch the men – their horses were tired whereas this one had been freshly taken from the stable, the trap was light, I was an excellent driver – yes, we were gaining upon them. Perhaps at that next bend in the road…_

_"Holmes, slow down!"_

_We flew around the curve at an exhilaratingly fast clip, and I turned triumphantly to Watson. He was white-faced, gripping the seat tightly, looking fearfully at me._

_"Let me take the reins for a while!" he shouted over a peal of thunder._

_"No, no," I laughed – we were gaining on the men rapidly now. _

_At that next curve we should have them! I flicked the reins and the horse leapt forward in obedience to me – I reveled in the power, the speed with which we were covering ground. Almost to the bend now…_

_"Holmes!"_

_I laughed exultantly. _

_"Holmes, look out!"_

_The frantic cry registered in my ear only a moment before I felt the two right wheels of the trap go over the soft edge of the steep embankment on the side, teetering on the edge. Before I could even realise what was happening there was a shrill shriek from the horse and a crunching, sickening crash as the vehicle went over the edge, rolling over and dropping to the rocky ridge some ten or fifteen feet below._

_I was thrown clear of the trap, landing hard on what I assumed was a rock, crying out in pain as I took the blow to my stomach, knocking the wind completely out of me. The rain was pelting down upon the scene, and the cold of it as well as the shock of what had just happened suddenly drove the cloud back from my senses._

_Watson! _

_I scrambled to my feet, desperately trying to reorient my dazed mind, and staggered back to the wreckage of the trap. The horse was dead, its neck broken, and the vehicle itself was in pieces, some of which were strewn upon the rocky ground._

_But I was suddenly sickened by the sight of a hand, nearly buried under the wreckage of the vehicle. Ignoring the pain of my own slight injuries I started to desperately haul the pieces of the wreck off my friend, finally freeing him and dragging him out from under the cab._

_I choked, my stomach churning, seeing even in the pale moonlight the amount of blood seeping through his clothing and covering the side of his head. He was breathing, but only barely, so shallowly I had to check three times before I realised he still lived._

_As I cradled him in my arms and tried to rouse him, he moaned faintly and stirred, the rain beating down upon us and helping to revive him. The wind howled as I desperately tried to get him to respond, calling him again and again…_

_Finally his eyelids fluttered open for a moment before squeezing shut once more against the pain. I was thankful for the rain, for then he could not tell that half the water on my face was made of tears of guilt as I bent my head over his, fighting for control of myself._

_"Watson, please, forgive me," I whispered brokenly, not knowing if he could even hear me._

_His eyes opened weakly._

_"H-Holmes, Promise m-me –" he gasped, a shudder wracking his frame and causing a strangled cry of pain._

_"What?" I whispered, blinking my vision clear._

_"Promise me – you won't – use that drug – ever again," he coughed deeply, clenching his jaw with a low moan._

_I could not speak round the lump of guilt in my throat, and his eyes turned to meet mine in the semi-darkness, filling with desperate pleading._

_"Don't – don't jeopardise – your c-career – any longer – with that," he gasped, his crushing grip on my hand weakening as he spoke, his voice becoming fainter, "p-promise – promise me?"_

_I nodded wordlessly, unable to talk, and I felt him relax in my arms, giving me the faintest of smiles. Then his eyes closed and he went limp._

_"Watson!"_

_The choked cry came unbidden from my lungs…_

"**Holmes**! For the love of heaven, man!"

Something shook me violently and I snapped my eyes open with a sharp start, absolutely terrified. In the brightness of an afternoon sun I saw that I – I was in Baker Street, in the sitting room, _not_ out on the moors in that horrible case back in '95.

Watson was sitting on the edge of the couch, one arm round my shoulders, holding me tightly in a half-sitting position, his other hand gripping one of mine intensely, his face dead-white. I only then realised that I was drenched in sweat, trembling violently, and that I was only seconds away from a very embarrassing and (for me) unheard-of display of tears. Curse this dreadful weakness I was under!

"What the devil were you dreaming about?" he whispered, "I've not heard a scream that anguished since I left Afghanistan."

I was not strong enough at the moment for prevarication, weakened in both mind and body and therefore not in full control of my emotions as I most definitely would have liked to be.

"The – the Stevenson case," I said shakily, clinging to him in my still-vivid fear.

I saw recognition, then sympathy flit across his face as he realised, and his arm tightened round me protectively.

"It's all right, old fellow," he said gently as I shuddered, and the sound of his strong voice was oddly soothing, "I'm right here, it's all right."

And for once in my life I welcomed the emotional comfort that I so normally rejected as being unfit for my line of work.

But my mind refused to be put at ease, as the sickening dream replayed over and over in my mind, together with the horrible events that had followed that portion of it during that near-fatal case two years ago.

Because of my drug-induced confidence, we had gone over that embankment and Watson had nearly died – it was only a kind Providence that spared him, that sent a man and a country doctor from the inn where I'd stolen the trap out after us that awful night, that allowed him to survive his very serious injuries.

If he _had_ died, I would have been as guilty of murder as if I'd held a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. And the price of promising him to never again indulge in that vice was small payment indeed for having his life spared to me.

And _that_ was the vow I had so flippantly broken yesterday.

_What had I been thinking?_

_

* * *

**To be continued...reviews are very much appreciated!**_


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Ok, so I changed my mind – hey, I'm a writer, I'm temperamental. :) I switched back to Watson for this one.**

* * *

"Holmes, this has to stop."

"Drop it, Doctor," Holmes said uneasily.

"I want to help you, but I cannot if you don't want to be helped!" I said desperately.

"You don't understand, Watson!" he snapped, his face a picture of complete misery. "You have no idea the pull of it! Even my deep mind cannot stop the inexorable calling of that drug! You have attempted to free me from it for over fifteen years, and I have proven that your work was all in vain."

"Holmes, we can start over," I said, gripping his arm reassuringly, "we'll go take a holiday, far from London –"

"No."

"Holmes, please hear me out! If we can get you away from all the boredom, find you something else to do, and leave this mess behind us, I believe you have a good chance of besting this thing!"

"It won't work."

"You have no way of knowing that!" I exclaimed.

His weakened gaze met mine, still harbouring that lingering fear of his nightmare, and for a moment I thought he would acquiesce to my pleading. But then that mask dropped back over his features and his face hardened.

"No, Doctor. I am perfectly fine on my own and there is nothing you can do."

His words were not unkind, but they still sent a pang through my heart. If he had no faith in me or in his own redoubtable willpower, then it truly _was_ hopeless.

But I refused to believe that; there had to be something to be done.

"Holmes, please let us take a holiday? It can do no harm!"

"I said no, Watson!" he snapped fiercely.

I backed away, wary of another mood swing as he glared at me. But his furrowed brows suddenly relaxed, and he shook his head almost sadly.

"Please, Watson, it is simply impossible. I thank you for your concern, but you can do nothing," he said in a flat voice, devoid of any emotion whatsoever.

"I refuse to believe that," I whispered.

My friend glanced at me for a moment, then shook his head. And I watched worriedly as he staggered to his feet, shaking off my offer of assistance, his face a sickly shade of grey. A moment later he had shut his bedroom door behind him and I heard the key turn – why was he shutting me out?

The man was obviously close to petrified at the recollection of that horrible case two years ago; his vivid imagination could conjure up the most frightening demons sometimes, as well I knew, and obviously he was still badly shaken by his nightmare. Why then would he not allow me to help him?

I sighed wearily, folding up the blankets he had left tangled upon the floor in his hasty retreat, and wondering what I was to do. If he would not allow me to try to help him, then there was simply no hope for it.

How I wished he would just decide to drop that cold façade he hid his formidable mind and heart behind and tell me what was going through his thoughts!

My head was now throbbing from a combination of lack of sleep and stress, but my nerves were in such knots that I doubted if I could even nap a little. I glanced at the clock – mid-afternoon. Agar's consulting room closed at half-past three; if I hurried I could catch him before he closed up.

Perhaps he would have some more thoughts upon the matter, some advice for me. I cast a glance at Holmes's bedroom, hesitating. Then I crossed to the closed door and rapped sharply on it.

"Holmes?"

"What?"

At least he was still speaking to me.

"I'm going out – call Mrs. Hudson if you need anything," I called through the wood.

There was no answer, but I knew he had heard. I turned away, my mind ill-at-ease with indecision and grief.

I caught Agar just as he was about to close up for the day, and he put my nervousness at ease at once, waving off my apologies for coming to him yet again without an appointment to see the specialist.

"How is Mr. Holmes?" he asked as we sat in the same positions we had been in earlier.

"Still very weak, as you said."

"Nausea, headache?"

"Headache, he said, but he's eating."

"Good sign. Any moodiness at all?"

I hesitated, my eyes downcast. Agar's voice softened the merest trifle.

"That is to be expected, Watson. Now tell me, what progress have you made as far as his mental state?"

I detailed to the specialist the gist of what had gone on, and the man's honest face drew inward with worry.

"That is not a good sign."

"I know it," I replied unhappily, fidgeting with my cufflinks in my discomfort.

Agar leant back in his chair, tapping a long forefinger against his lips in deep thought.

"Watson. Do you really believe that if you could get him away from London on a holiday, you could find a way to rid him of that drug?"

I considered a moment before replying.

"I certainly think there is a better possibility of it there than here in London," I replied at last.

Agar's eyes gleamed with a sudden decision.

"Then make your plans to leave within a day or two. I would recommend the coast somewhere, perhaps Cornwall?"

I stared at the man.

"He will not go," I repeated my statement of earlier, puzzled.

Agar smiled, shuffling a stack of papers into a drawer as he spoke.

"Oh, I believe he will, Doctor. I am no amateur student of psychology, and I have a few tricks up my sleeve that I would be willing to wager Mr. Holmes himself will be powerless to resist."

"Now _that_ I should like to see," I could not help but respond dryly.

"You will. Now get along, Watson, and make those preparations. I shall see you sometime."

"But –"

"No, no, your reaction must be completely genuine; I shall not tell you what I intend," Agar said with a smile, motioning me out the door before I could voice a protest.

Ten minutes later, I found myself in a cab headed back to Baker Street for the second time that day, my mind whirling, trying to make sense out of Agar's cryptic comments. What the devil did the man have in mind, that he refused to tell me of it?

I laid my head wearily back against the seat, exhaustion draining me of being capable of even the most elementary thought – I was just too tired to wonder about it any longer.

The rain had faded to a low drizzle, which although less soaking than the former was just as chilling, and I was very glad to see Baker Street ahead of me. I paid the cabbie and hastened inside, blowing in with a large splosh from a gutter-spout, drenching the floor in the hall. For a moment I stood there, dripping and shivering, before removing my coat and starting to mount the steps.

Never had the staircase seemed so long before, and my leg ached miserably. I tried Holmes's bedroom door, finding it unlocked now, and peeked into the room to check on him.

I glanced disapprovingly at the haze in the air – obviously he had been smoking heavily. But there was nothing I could do to change that after so many years, and so I merely sighed, seeing that he was asleep once more, his face calm for the moment and apparently without dreams.

Having ascertained that he was not running a temperature, I staggered up to my room and fell upon my own bed without bothering to even remove my cravat, too exhausted to care about ought else but sleep.

Judging from the way my head was still pounding, it could not have been very many hours later that I was abruptly awakened by loud and angry raised voices from downstairs. I sat up stiffly, wincing, and hastily splashed water upon my face in an effort to regain my senses. Then I made my way down to the sitting room, seeing a light on in the gathering evening dark. The loud voices were emerging from the sitting room.

I entered, rubbing my eyes irritably, trying to focus upon the two figures within. Then I stiffened as I realised that opposite Holmes was Dr. Moore Agar. What was he doing?

"Watson, where the devil have you been?" Holmes demanded querulously from his slumped position in his armchair.

"Asleep," I replied stiffly, pouring myself a drink, "now what in heaven's name is going on here?"

"This – _quack_ says that you went to see him about me, Doctor!" Holmes snapped, and I recognised that both I and Agar were treading on exceptionally thin ice. I certainly hoped the man knew what he was doing…

I winced at Holmes's choice of words, and Agar nearly exploded.

"I, Mr. Holmes, am most definitely _not_ a quack, I am a Harley Street specialist," he said haughtily, "and evidently your great powers are not nearly as great as your rather amateurish biographer has made them out to be in the pages of that romantic rag, the _Strand_, if you do not remember me!"

I bristled at the insult, completely dumbfounded at the man's change in attitude toward me.

But Holmes, who had hitherto been listlessly sitting in his chair, his face showing a large amount of annoyance, suddenly sat upright, his grey eyes flashing.

"Dr. Agar, I have no need of your services or your insults. Kindly remove yourself from this flat," he said in a dangerously calm voice.

"Oh, do stop it, Mr. Holmes. I have been called here to examine you, and I am going to do so. If you'll excuse us, Dr. Watson?"

I stared at the man.

"Don't move, Watson," Holmes warned.

"Holmes, I cannot conduct an investigation with another – _practitioner_, present. We shan't be long, Watson," Agar said, glancing at my rather dishevelled appearance disdainfully above his immaculate collar.

I was stunned at the transformation in the specialist's attitude – what the devil had gotten into him? Confused, I turned to leave.

"Watson is staying. And you, Agar, are leaving. _Now_," Holmes snapped.

"Really, Holmes, be an adult about this. Your friend here called on me because he is very obviously not qualified to deal with your situation, so you would do well to submit to my more expert opinion."

"To blazes with your expert opinion!"

I gaped at Holmes's unaccustomed vehemence and the flush that had crept into his pale face.

"I have a series of treatments that I have found to be quite effective in cases of drug abuse, Holmes, and I am going to begin them with you at once," Agar said coolly, pulling out a notebook.

"You shall do nothing of the kind!"

"Honestly, Holmes. You have a drug issue, and obviously you have not gotten any very good help in dealing with it in the past. Not that I blame you for your ignorance, Watson," he turned to me here, his face filled with a smug insolence, "one would never expect a mere army doctor to be at all useful in breaking a man of a drug addiction. A general practice does not allow for the finer points of our - ahem - _shared_ profession."

I winced at the man's obviously facetious emphasis of the term as my friend glared at the man.

"I have no need of your treatments, sir!" Holmes nearly hissed.

"Oh, but you do, Holmes," Agar went on complacently, speaking slowly as to a very small child, "you do indeed. Obviously you have never had access to the help you need, and so I shall be glad to treat you."

Holmes's eyes flashed a cold grey fire.

"I am already undergoing a treatment," he snapped.

I felt my eyes widen – what in the world?

Agar's eyebrows raised in obvious disdain.

"Watson has already proposed a treatment for me, a holiday to the country. I have no need of your propositions, sir. Good day."

"Come now, Holmes. With no offense meant to Dr. Watson," he glanced at me, "I really have very little faith in the quality and the effectiveness of anything he might prescribe. I mean, a_ general practitioner_ cannot possibly –"

I felt my jaw drop as Holmes fairly flew out of his chair to tower over Agar.

"Leave my house this instant, sir," he spat dangerously.

Agar sighed tolerantly, patting the detective on the shoulder.

"Excitability is another of the symptoms of an overdose, Holmes. Sit down and let me start to –"

"Get out, I said! How dare you!"

I nearly laughed aloud as Holmes's face grew angry, and his eyes glinted with a very dangerous gleam as he took another step toward the specialist.

"Mr. Holmes, you need an expert opinion –"

Holmes took one more long step toward the man and Agar backed away hastily.

"I don't believe a country holiday is a very wise option, Holmes, rather a foolish proposal in fact," he said snidely.

"Agar, I am giving you fair warning!"

"Very well, Holmes, you need not be uncivil about it. But honestly, I believe you will regret taking that holiday –"

Holmes advanced, his face darkening to a deep shade of red.

Agar turned to leave hastily, brushing up against me on his way out. And he winked at me as he passed, then slammed the door with rather too much vehemence.

I stood, staring at the closed door, trying to process what had just happened, still slightly confused.

"Of all the insolent, intolerable, _pompous_, _arrogant_, _**insufferable**_ –"

I turned back to Holmes, trying desperately to restrain the smile that was quirking the corners of my mouth at his absolute and complete indignation. He met my gaze for a long moment, his eyes flashing a deep hidden fire. Then –

"Tell me when our train leaves," he growled, retreating into his room and slamming the door with almost as much force as Agar had a moment earlier.

I sank into my armchair, my eyes stinging with relief and thankfulness.

He had taken the first step – in his own indirect way, he had just told me he was willing to try at least. We could work with that. Together.

* * *

**_To be continued...please review!_**


	6. Chapter 6

"Holmes?"

I rapped on the door to his room again, a packet of travel brochures in my hand.

"What is it now!"

I cringed – as he gradually recovered his strength he also was recovering his irritability.

"May I come in?"

"Yes!" he bellowed.

I opened the door to find him throwing things about the room, a half-packed valise open upon the bed.

"What is it, Watson," he growled.

I hesitated for a moment, then went on nervously.

"I was just wondering where you would prefer to go," I said, extending the pamphlets to him. "North, south, what?"

He barely glanced at them, sniffed in disgust, and went back to his rummaging.

"I could not care less, Watson. This is all your doing, you take the responsibility for it. It's all the same to me."

I winced as he nearly knocked over the lamp in his pursuit of some elusive item of clothing.

"You are sure?"

"Can you not just leave me alone!" he snapped irritably.

"I – I'm sorry."

I hastily turned away, not wanting him to see my hurt at his brusque words, though I knew there would be many more to come in this days following. This was not going to be easy on either of us; and right now I was so tired that I dared not say much for fear I should lose my temper again as I had before. I had nearly closed the door when he stopped me.

"Watson?"

I looked back, my hand on the knob. He was fidgeting nervously with a necktie, rolling it up and unrolling it, over and over. Finally he glanced up at me.

"I saw one of those pamphlets about the Cornish coast," he said uncertainly, a half-smile quirking one side of his mouth, "does that suit you?"

In his own odd way, that was his offering of an apology and I accepted it as a small victory, giving him a smile before closing the door once again and setting in motion the necessary arrangements.

The very next morning I was hauling a rather grumpy Sherlock Holmes out of the flat at an early hour to catch the Cornish train. A night's sleep had improved my mood very much, so that I now felt at least mostly in control of myself once again, and Holmes appeared to be recovering fairly well so far.

I took his elbow as we pushed through the crowd, seeing him lag a bit due to that lingering weakness, and he did not shrug me off – small victories, but victories nonetheless. The whistle blew, and we began to move. Holmes huddled up in the seat rather miserably, pulling his overcoat closely about him and closing his eyes without a word to me.

I studied him carefully – he was uncharacteristically silent, which either indicated still extreme exhaustion (which I had no doubt he was feeling) or a distrust of possible topics of conversation (which was well-founded, I had to admit).

Sherlock Holmes was the proudest man I had ever met, and have ever met since. I felt my brow furrow in thought as I pondered what to do. He had agreed to this holiday, or rather had been pushed by reverse psychology into taking it, but that did not mean he was any closer to giving up that drug.

And knowing the man's innate complete pride and independence, I had the feeling that he would very much resent any intrusion into his private affairs that I might make. I decided then to not mention the overdose or the drug unless he chose to or unless the topic came up somehow.

He would definitely not respond well to my continually dredging up his mistakes and broken promises; kindness and gentle support would go much further with him than pleading and guilt trips.

Suddenly I realised from his slow, rhythmic breathing that he had fallen asleep, and that was a good thing for he was still dreadfully weak.

I pulled out the notebook Agar had written in for me, making a mental note to thank the man for what he had done (he had taken a greater chance than he knew, for I had seen Holmes actually take his fist more than once to men who insulted me!), and I opened to the page where he had scribbled out the withdrawal symptoms that Holmes would probably eventually be feeling.

Irritability, mental withdrawal, lack of energy, sore muscles, and unaccountable tremors and muscle spasms, just to start the list – who knew how Holmes's peculiar constitution and brain would react to being deprived of the drug?

And that was only _if_ he decided he wanted to free himself of it. I sincerely prayed that he would, for I knew that not even I could break through that shielded exterior and force him to stop using it; the final decision would be his and his alone. It was only my responsibility to get him to that point.

Holmes stirred uneasily, his brow furrowing – Agar had said that sleep could be variable and more than likely disturbed by various dreams even after the drug had left his system wholly. I watched for a moment uncertainly, but he quieted on his own and went back to sleep as the rain started again, drumming steadily and soothingly upon the roof.

I began to absently peruse the newspapers and a novel I had brought with me, deciding to let things take whatever course they would.

* * *

_**Holmes**_

I awoke this time actually feeling as if I had slept – it had not been so the last few times, my dreams being haunted by various drug-clouded spectres that I had no desire to ever recall. The rain was thrumming steadily outside, fogging the rain windows and creating a peaceful, almost cozy atmosphere as I opened my eyes and glanced about.

Watson was immersed in some lurid novel, his eyes flitting rapidly over the pages in his eagerness, and I smiled in spite of myself. I had been rather a churl lately, and the man's patience had been taxed to the utmost I had no doubt. He deserved this holiday more than I did.

But I was still more than a little worried – I well knew the discussion of my folly and my habit was far from over. When would he bring it up again? I felt as if I were walking the edge of a cliff nervously, waiting for a storm to break.

But even as I contemplated, he glanced up and saw that I was awake.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, and his tone was far warmer than it had been thus far, sounding much more like himself.

"Better, actually," I admitted, stretching out my long legs, which had grown cramped in the compartment.

"Good. Paper?" he offered me a stack of news.

"Anything interesting?"

"To me or you?" he asked mischievously.

The levity was rather a welcome change from his frigidly polite manner of hours gone by, and I felt myself relaxing a bit.

"To me, of course! And don't try to be funny and read me the wedding announcements and baby christenings!"

"Well no one's been killed, if that's what you're wanting," he informed me, flipping through the pages absently.

I snorted.

"You act as if I required violent and unpleasant death on a regular basis to keep my attention!"

I halted, realising what I had just said – how close I had come to an unpleasant death myself!

I opened my mouth to apologise, but Watson interrupted me as smoothly as if I had merely asked about the weather.

"Well you might enjoy this article, pokes fun at the incompetence of Scotland Yard," he said dryly, tossing the paper at me and going back to his novel.

I breathed a sigh of relief and hid my face in the paper until we reached the tiny station between the coast and the Cornish hamlet of Treddanick Wallos. Watson had located a cottage for rent near what he so romantically termed the 'mysteriously and sinisterly beautiful' Poldhu Bay, as far south from London as it was possible to be and still remain on land.

I cared naught for such scenery usually, but even I had to admit to actually being rather pleased with the place. As Watson said, it was mysterious, the Bay itself being a death-trap for sailing vessels – in a calm, the water appears placid and inviting; and then in a storm, the unwariest of ships are sunk upon its treacherous reefs. The place reeked of mystery and death and hidden treachery. I might enjoy this atmosphere after all.

I said as much to my friend as we disembarked, and he stared at me for a moment before laughing outright.

"Honestly, Holmes! And you call _me_ the romantic imaginer?"

I could not repress a grin, for my sentiments actually were rather idealistic, for me at least.

"What do you think of the countryside, Holmes?"

"Looks like every other moor in England."

"Spoilsport."

"I am not."

"You are."

"I am not!"

"You are. Hungry?"

I glared at him, which unfortunately after fifteen years of enduring such looks did not faze him in the least. Unperturbed, he repeated the question.

"Mm, not really."

"Too bad, you're going to eat anyhow."

"Watson!"

"Now, now, a patient is not permitted to argue with his doctor," said he, bending to pick up a valise.

I had bent at the same time, but he beat me to my bags. I looked up and our eyes met and held for a long moment.

His were twinkling with that same warm sparkle that he always had when speaking to me, and which I had not seen in close to forty-eight hours now. I swallowed hard, realising from his attitude that he had, as always, forgiven me for what I had done.

Relief swept over me like a wave, a huge burden lifted from my mind. I knew my Watson, knew him better than any other in the world. If he had forgiven me, then I could take his word that he would not reproach me again for my lapse of character.

He tugged gently on the bag I held in my hands, taking it from me, and I felt a smile come to my face unbidden.

"Actually, Watson, I do believe I could eat something after all."

* * *

**_To be continued, as usual...always grateful for reviews!_**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: For those of you who have not seen the Granada, the bit at the end about his using the syringe in the cottage actually happened that way in that episode (give or take a bit of poetic license, but the basic events are the same).**

* * *

"The sea air will do you a world of good, Holmes!"

I scowled, in absolutely no mood for any more doctoring. I felt weak, and ill, and tired from the journey, and had no desire whatsoever to hear a long dissertation upon how the changes in climate affect one's health, appetite, etc.

"You should have traveled alone, Watson, and left me in London," I growled, hunching up into the seat – it was so blasted chilly here!

"Nonsense," he replied, completely ignoring my irritable manner, "we both needed a holiday."

He turned away to glance eagerly out upon the scenery, and I sat back with a small sigh, wishing this confounded drive were over. Watson had told me over lunch, in a most matter-of-fact manner, what the possible physical repercussions might be from my indiscretion. He had then hastened to add that he was merely telling me this so that if I felt any of them, he hoped I would not be too proud to ask for help if I needed it.

Truth be told, I was already feeling some of the withdrawal symptoms he had described. Constant sharp muscle aches, unaccountable tremors – both of which were making themselves felt in my abused body just now, and I had no doubt that the possible mood swings he mentioned were sure to follow if I continued feeling this way.

My gaze moved involuntarily to my valise, sitting behind us atop the pile of luggage. Watson did not know that I had brought the Moroccan case with me…perhaps if he left for a walk once we got to the cottage…I could plead not feeling well…it would give me enough time to be able to escape this pain for a while at least…

"Isn't it beautiful, Holmes?"

My friend's eager voice startled me out of my devious thinking, and I felt a tiny pang of shame which I squashed instantly. I answered to no one, not even him – why should I feel any repentance when I had no obligation in the first place?

"Hmph."

He smiled tolerantly at my irritability, but as I shivered again even underneath all the coverings he had forced upon me as the wind blew over us, his face drew in with worry.

"Are you all right? You can have my coat if you want –"

"No, no, Doctor," I replied hastily, his unselfishness making me feel even more guilty about my thoughts, "you said we were almost there, anyway."

"Yes. I chose this place because it appears to be quite secluded," he said, glancing at me for my approval, "I used to come to Cornwall to visit a friend from my college days, and at least then most people congregated more toward the parish. This house appears to be fairly well-hidden, so you shouldn't have to meet anyone you don't wish to."

"Thank you," I replied sincerely.

Watson smiled, then glanced ahead of us.

"Ah, there it is. Listen, you can hear the ocean quite clearly – must just be over those cliffs there!"

I smiled despite my mood at his exuberance, trying desperately to ignore the pain in my muscles and the frustrating weakness that I so hated showing. In a moment we had pulled up outside the cottage.

Watson hopped down, unlocked the door, and was back before I could disentangle myself from the blankets. He helped me down with that innate gentleness that was an integral part of his success as a physician, telling me sternly to go inside and pick out my room and to leave the luggage.

I had not the strength nor the will to protest and so did as he asked, glancing out the windows of the room I had chosen. The ocean was indeed within a very short walk, the cliffs being black and steep there against the blue water. I could hear the soothing sounds of the surf as well as the more annoying ones of those confounded seagulls – blasted things would probably keep me up all night.

I felt a pang of guilt as Watson struggled into the room with my portmanteau, dropping it heavily and wincing as it strained his bad shoulder, but he waved off my feeble offer of assistance and went back for my valises which the driver had dumped in the sitting room before driving back to town.

"Thank you," I said apologetically, as he stood for a moment to catch his breath.

"You're welcome. Do you need anything?" he asked.

"I don't believe so."

"I'll start a fire," he said quietly, seeing the way I was shaking but too tactful to comment upon the weakness, for which I was grateful.

He left the room, shutting the door behind him, and I sank upon the bed with my valise, unpacking a few personal items and placing them on the bedside table. I took off my overcoat and retrieved a thick afghan instead, then unpacked a bit more.

My hand closed round that case holding my two syringes (I had of course replaced the one Watson had broken in his anger) and the cocaine bottle, contemplating the risk of taking it while he was still around.

I truly had no desire to cause him hurt, but I knew my own pain would go away if I could just –

Watson rapped on the door and started to turn the knob, and I hastily stuffed the case into my pocket.

"It's started," he informed me, "I'm going to go take a look at the cliffs. Up to coming, or would you rather stay and warm up?"

I hesitated, torn, but he smiled and pulled his gloves back on.

"I shan't be long."

A moment later I heard the front door of the cottage close, and I hastily arose and went out to sit by the fire. The warmth appeased the chill but not the cramping or the pain, and I bit back a moan as I huddled up in a chair. Nowhere near as comfortable as my armchair in Baker Street, confound it.

I could no longer see Watson from the window – he had gone further on down the path to walk the beach.

My hand closed round the case in my pocket and I drew it out, setting it on the table beside me.

As if in beckoning call, a flash of pain shot through my whole frame, causing me to shudder and give a loud curse. I stared at the case, weighing the consequences.

Watson was still out of sight, the pain was growing worse with each passing moment. I could just take not a full dosage, just enough to make me forget the acuteness of the agony…

If I just took a small dose, Watson probably would put my odd humour down to an aftereffect of the drug or just my innate moodiness. Just a small one, and perhaps it would not bother him as much if he did find out…

I felt another pang shoot through my aching head and muscles, and without thinking I pulled off my jacket and rolled up my sleeve.

I will be the first to admit I felt no remorse whatsoever, a fact for which I am regretful. But just then the pull was simply too strong, I had not the will or the wish to resist it. My foolhardy foray back into this realm two days ago had shattered my defenses against it and I felt myself again drawn in its inexorable sway.

I had just performed the familiar injection and was waiting for it to take effect when suddenly I heard the door open – he was back earlier than I had planned!

I instantly pulled the afghan up round my shoulders to hide the fact that my sleeve had not even yet been rolled down, hoping he would walk on by without looking at me, go unpack or something. But I was not so lucky.

I heard footsteps behind me and suddenly realised the case was still lying open on the table. I hastily put my legs up on the table to cover it – but it was too late, he had seen it.

Behind me I heard the footsteps stop, a sharp intake of breath, and then silence, during which I felt more nervous than ever before in my life under any kind of scrutiny. I braced myself for the blowup sure to follow, only just now starting to regret doing this so soon after our arrival here. I cringed at the thought of his somewhat justified anger being unleashed upon me, as I sat there waiting for the storm to break.

"I'll…see to the luggage."

I was shocked to hear none of the anger I had been expecting, merely that one statement, delivered in a tone of the deepest betrayal. No words of reproach, no irate tirades about my fragile health, only that, in a voice that was near-choked with despairing disappointment.

The door to his bedroom shut behind him, and I slowly lowered my legs from the table, closing the Moroccan case with more force than necessary.

I would ten times rather have had him grow furious with me as he had before and berate me for my lack of caring and lapse of healthy sense – for then I could somehow justify my actions. But this silent, almost hopeless acceptance of my vice, this disappointment and sense of betrayal emanating from him was more unnerving than any angry outburst possibly could be.

I angrily shoved the case back into my pocket and replaced my sleeve and jacket, not understanding what exactly I was feeling. Matters of the emotions are most definitely not my forte, never have been, and that was no exception. Why was I so bothered by his reaction?

I went into my bedroom and threw the case back into my valise, snapping it shut and tossing it into the corner of the room in my annoyance to not be able to identify what I was feeling and why.

Footsteps sounded in the hall and Watson walked in, halting in surprise when he saw me standing there, fuming in suppressed frustration.

"I – I was going to unpack for you," he stammered.

"It can wait, Watson, you've done enough," I replied, equally uneasy.

"Just as you like," he said quietly, turning to leave.

Something within me unaccountably all at once did not want to spend the next few hours alone with my thoughts.

"Watson?"

"Yes?"

"Is it very chilly outside?"

"Not really, just a trifle windy," he replied, glancing quizzically at me.

"Would you – would you like to take a walk together?"

The corners of his eyes crinkled in a warm smile.

"I'll get your coat."

* * *

**_Sorry for the shortness of the chapter, but it was the best place to stop. If you review maybe the next one will get done today..._**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: As I promised, fluff. Continuing in Holmes's POV.**

* * *

"You know, the mystery and allure of this place is rather evocative," Watson said after we had eaten, walking over to the window and gazing out at the sun setting over the choppy water.

"To a purveyor of romantic fiction, no doubt," I replied dryly, huddling up in front of the roaring fire, listening to the surf and the wind and those confounded seagulls.

He laughed lightly.

"You _must_ be feeling a bit better, to be able to twit me about my 'infernal scribbling'," he said smilingly, gazing out at the scenery.

We had taken a very long walk, and actually I had found myself enjoying it very much. Watson said not a word about my using that cocaine, for which I was grateful in part. But also in part I was very annoyed, because his silence upon the matter was more guilt-inducing than if he had preached at me about it for several hours on end.

Already I could feel the draw of that devilish drug once again as the pain in my limbs grew worse and I could not stop shivering. I could never recall being so inestimably weary – another possible by-product of my foolish overdose, according to Agar and Watson.

I stared moodily into the fire, my mind in turmoil, reverting back to that syringe in my bedroom despite myself. I could tell Watson I was exhausted, which was true, go in there and lock the door, and…

No, I should not. Every bit of intelligence I had in me screamed a warning against it. But it was so very tempting…

I was feeling so poorly that I did not even hear Watson walk away from the window and enter my room – did not even realise he had gone until he came back, walking over to me.

"Come on, you're going to bed now," he said firmly, catching hold of my arm and pulling me gently from my chair.

I voiced a feeble protest, born more out of not wanting to be left alone with my temptation than not wanting sleep, but he would have none of it, guiding me into the room as my steps dragged and then disappearing for a candle – the room was rather bare from not being let in quite a while.

I changed and readied myself for bed, noticing that Watson had already prepared it for me and casting a glance at the valise still in the corner where I had thrown it. As another pain shot through my body, I took a few steps toward the case, halting when I heard Watson coming back.

I collapsed rather than sat on the bed, wincing at the pain just as he entered with a lit candle. He set it on the bedside table and settled me on the bed, kindly refraining from any comments about my pathetic weakness.

"Holmes," he began gently, drawing the blankets up round me, "I know you're in a lot of pain. But you understand, I cannot give you morphine or any other drug, not when -"

"I understand," I replied wearily, clenching my hands into fists under the covers, "I should have absolutely no respect for you if you did."

I managed a weak smile at his face, and I saw relief cross it at the fact that I accepted his statement without him having to elaborate.

"If you can't sleep, don't…well…well, come and get me, all right?"

I knew what he had stopped himself from saying, and I appreciated his doing so.

"Thank you."

"I mean it, Holmes – I'll be in the sitting room for a while if you need me," he said softly, blowing out the candle and leaving a box of matches beside it in case I needed it during the night.

And without another word he turned down the gas and left the room, shutting the door.

After two hours of tossing and turning the pain grew unbearable – and I was so unbelievably tired, so weary, and sleep would not come. I firmly killed the voice of my conscience, arising rather weakly and going to the valise, retrieving the Moroccan case from within and taking it back to the bed with me.

For a moment I sat there, looking down at the case and its deadly contents, and though my body was screaming for satisfaction my mind was voicing a very loud protest, reminding me of what had happened the last time I had injected myself in the dark and then gone to sleep. The memory of nearly dying from suffocation was still fresh, as well as the fright I had given to the only man in the world I was lucky enough to call my friend.

Both of them viable reasons to _not_ satisfy that craving that was fighting for control within me.

I cannot describe the amount of pride that I felt when I firmly shoved the case into the drawer unopened and then settled back under the sheets, hoping and praying for sleep and relief from the pain. I absently wondered if I should tell Watson that I had resisted the beckoning of the drug, he would be so pleased…

No, better that I should wait and see if I lasted the night without taking it.

I lay there for close onto another two hours, tossing and turning in an effort to find a position where my very bones did not ache so and failing miserably. I tried everything imaginable, but the combination of an unfamiliar bed and house together with my own pain made it nigh on impossible.

I was suddenly startled by the creaking of my bedroom door, and Watson silently poked his head in, clad in his dressing-gown and slippers. Seeing that I was still awake, he entered quietly.

"I was hoping you'd have dropped off by now," he said softly, bending down to straighten the tangled blankets.

"I can't seem to," I growled rather testily.

His gaze was on my bedside table, not upon me, and I followed it – I had left the drawer open on the table and he was looking at the case within. I watched as pain flitted across his face and he carefully hid it under a calm mask. I grinned a little weakly at him.

"I will admit I thought about it, my dear fellow, but it's in the drawer instead of on top of the table for a reason," I said quietly.

His eyes met mine, and they fairly lit up with pride.

"Well done, Holmes!"

For some odd reason, those three words filled me with an undue amount of pride and happiness that almost drove back some of the pain I was feeling.

"Can I get you anything?"

"A new body," I said wryly.

"Can't do that, you're going to have to take care of the one you have."

I winced at the pointed admonishment, gentle though it was, and my friend smiled.

"Touché, my dear Watson."

"Do try to relax, old man, take deep breaths, and think of something peaceful," he replied gently.

"I don't like peacefulness," I growled.

"Then think of a heinous, gory crime," he retorted with a grin, turning to leave. "I'll be in the next room if you want me."

I nodded, rolling over and closing my so-very-weary eyes, still feeling that odd glow that had come over me at his simple words of praise still filling me with its warmth.

* * *

I woke the next morning with the sun streaming brightly into my window. I glanced at the clock – it was nearing ten!

I performed a hasty toilette and donned my dressing gown, noting that I felt slightly more steady upon my feet this morning than I had last night, and I went out to the sitting room to find Watson just entering from a morning trudge across the moor, judging from the mud on his boots.

"Morning, Holmes!"

"Gone for a morning walk on the moor, I perceive."

"Well it's nice to see your powers of deduction haven't suffered because of your recent..._activities_," he said, his eyes twinkling.

I stiffened until I saw from his expression that he was merely jesting with me – and it was a good sign, for if we could joke about the matter it was on its way to being forgotten. I returned his smile warmly.

"If you'll give me a few minutes, I'll have breakfast ready," he said.

I cast him a dubious look, making him laugh aloud.

"Have no fear, old chap, I learnt to cook in the army," he said with a grin, "might not be up to Mrs. Hudson's standards but it'll serve. I'll go into town this afternoon to see about a housekeeper perhaps if you'd rather."

"I'll reserve my judgment on that score until after breakfast," I replied doubtfully, walking over to the crackling fire.

I heard him laugh as he made his way to the cottage's small kitchen, and I smiled when he could not see me – truly, I never got the man's limits.

I said as much to him an hour later, when I set my fork down after a very passable plate of ham and eggs, and he laughed lightly.

"Still, I am thinking we may need a housekeeper, occasionally at least depending upon how long we shall be staying here," he said, "and you might like to go into town as well, Holmes – there's a library, quite large for its size and quite old. You might find some old texts or something to interest you."

"Hmm, yes, I should rather like make sure something is occupying my mind," I said thoughtfully.

"So would I," he returned soberly.

"This afternoon it is, then."

"Splendid! Up for a morning walk?"

"Thought you've already had one?"

"Not with you."

I glanced at him, feeling my morning irritability fade away under his honest affection.

"I suppose you'll be hounding me about the benefits of fresh air if I don't?"

"Brilliant deduction, Holmes. You scintillate this morning, must be the sea breeze," he replied mischievously, disappearing into the kitchen with our breakfast dishes.

I gave vent to a full-fledged laugh, my first in days.

"Are you feeling strong enough to bringing in those coffee cups?" he bellowed from the kitchen.

I scowled at the closed door.

"Was that meant as sarcasm, Watson?"

"Draw your own deductions, Holmes!" he called back.

I snickered and decided to leave the cups on the table just to be annoying. Then I went to change into some warm clothing in preparation for a constitutional in this Cornish air.

And as I heard an indignant squawk from the dining area while I was tying my cravat, I felt just a slight bit lighter of heart than I had in the past two days.

And I left the bedroom without even a glance at the leather case in my bedside table drawer.

* * *

**_Small victories, but still victories, eh? Reviews would be appreciated as always!_**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Thanks to all you who have reviewed, cheering Holmes on - glad you're liking this! **

* * *

_**Watson**_

I was inordinately pleased by Holmes's telling me the night before that he had successfully resisted the call of that infernal drug – I had fully expected him to try to escape his pain with the substance and I would not have blamed him over-much for it; he looked absolutely miserable.

But he had not used it, and I was proud of him for it. Small victories I well knew would lead to larger ones. And we had all the time in the world to make that journey. I had told no one except Mycroft Holmes, not even Mrs. Hudson, where we were going so that we could not be found. We had plenty of time.

I rapped on Holmes's bedroom door and found him trying to struggle into his heavy overcoat, swearing a blue streak at his still evident weakness. I stepped over and held it out so that he could get it on without trouble, and he had the decency to growl an irritated thank-you at which I smiled.

Ten minutes later we were walking a path along the cliffs, descending to the white beach below. The wind was brisk but not too cold, and I was pleased to see that Holmes appeared to not be shivering any worse than before. The air was laden with salt and water, and between the roaring of the white-capped surf and the obnoxious crying of the gulls overhead, conversation was a little difficult.

We strolled along for a while in companionable silence, which suited my patient's mood evidently for he made no effort to speak. I gazed out over the water, noticing that it appeared perfectly deep and clear; but I knew of the hidden reefs there that appeared in storms. The place did, as Holmes said, reek of treachery and mystery.

I should have to come out here sometime and try my hand at writing about the atmosphere of the place – would be highly conducive to creative inspiration.

Holmes bent down and casually picked up a rock, tossing it out into the blue water where it made a loud splash. Three seagulls dove down toward it, evidently thinking to be food, and I heard him chuckle – also a good sign that he was feeling slightly better after a night's sleep, restless though it might have been.

"Noisy little things, aren't they?"

"Quite," he replied, smiling.

I suddenly ducked as one flew far too close to my head, screaming irately at me, and I heard Holmes snicker. I sent him a glare that silenced him almost at once, and he raised his eyebrows at me, the corners of his mouth twitching.

But three minutes later when one of the confounded birds started diving at him and he ducked, yelping louder than I had, it was my turn to laugh. He took my ribbing with a little less grace than I had done, however, scowling blackly at me.

Finally we started back along the path, keeping a wary eye out for more of the birds, still chuckling over the inane hour we had spent on the beach.

The rest of the morning and early afternoon Holmes spent indoors, lounging about boredly, napping occasionally. I watched him carefully, but I refused to follow him when he went into his room. If he chose to use the drug, I could do naught to stop him.

But I was surprised when he emerged a moment later with a pillow and flopped down upon the couch to doze – either consciously or unconsciously he was relieving my mind on the matter. I wished I could know which it was, but I rather hoped the former.

But his sleep was rather restless, and as I watched with furrowed brow as he tossed and turned fitfully, I could see that he was in no fit shape to be making a several-mile trudge into town. But I was loathe to leave him alone with his own devices…

_The final decision will be up to him,_ I could hear Agar saying to me. If he felt like I was keeping a close watch upon him it would make him even more irritable about the fact that he was already. If he felt that I did not trust him, he would make no effort to refrain from filling himself with that poison. What could I do…

I stopped my pondering as Holmes grew very restless, obviously troubled in sleep about something, his pale face drawn and haggard. I hesitated, my temper at his getting both of us into this mess still irking me, then my conscience struck me a hard blow as I heard him utter my name in his unconscious murmurings.

I crept closer to the couch just as he unconsciously called my name once again – what was he dreaming about, what part did I have in it? I desperately hoped he was not yet again reliving that awful Stevenson case; he had felt so intensely guilty after that case, with reason, but no man deserves to see such horrors repeatedly in his nightmares.

He moved restlessly, hands clenching round the afghan I had thrown over him, and muttered something unintelligible in a pleading voice. I reached out a hand to steady him, but he suddenly snapped awake of his own accord. I saw blank, complete panic in his eyes before he realised where he was and turned his gaze to my worried face.

I sat on the edge of the couch, noting that he was breathing heavily and watching me closely, not saying anything as if trying to bring himself under control. I patted his clenched hands gently.

"I'm sorry, old chap, but you'll be having disturbed sleep for a bit, it's a part of your withdrawal symptoms," I said quietly.

The haunted look had not left his eyes as he drew in a long breath.

"You weren't dreaming about that case again, were you?" I asked, watching his reaction.

He closed his eyes and nodded once. I was smitten with a pang of guilt; my outburst of two days' previous and the knowledge that he had broken a promise made to (he thought at the time) a dying man had obviously taken a strong hold in his vivid mind and was only now working its way out through these nightmares. And despite the fact that he well deserved to pay for what he had done, this kind of mental torture was nigh on unbearable.

"I can give you a light sleeping draught if you like," I said slowly.

"No."

I raised my eyebrows as he opened his eyes determinedly to meet mine.

"Good man."

He relaxed a bit and sat up against the cushions.

"I'm going to go into town now, Holmes," I changed the topic, seeing he was obviously uncomfortable with his personal thoughts.

"Shall I –"

"No," I said firmly, "I want you to stay here. It's too far of a walk when you're not yet recovered that much, Holmes."

His brows knitted, and I saw his eyes flit back to his bedroom. I arose and put on my coat.

"I shall be back in a few hours. Do try to rest, old chap," I said, buttoning the jacket.

"But – aren't you afraid I – that is," he stammered, realising what he had nearly admitted.

I turned from the door to look him square in the face.

"No, I'm not," I said firmly, willing a confidence I did not truly feel into my voice.

I saw surprise overtake his features, and his brows knitted, obviously not expecting that answer. I knew that he would never have a chance to truly resist the temptation on his own if he were wary that I would return at any time. This gave him three hours to choose or not choose without any assistance from me.

"But –"

"I believe you need some time alone, my dear fellow," I said, retrieving my cap.

He stared at me, as if still not registering my words.

"Now," I went on briskly, "what exactly would you like me to look for by way of research material for you to work on? Anything about the Cornish coast itself? Poldhu Bay legends?"

He gave a dry laugh.

"None of your ghost ship tales for me, Watson, thank you very much!"

I was relieved to see his mood slip back into that more sardonically humourous vein as he went on.

"I should like to find some material about the ancient Cornish language, Watson," he began to detail eagerly, "I believe it has some relations to the Chaldean tongue, perhaps with some connections to Phoenician tin traders, and I should very much like to research further upon the matter."

I glanced out of the corner of my eye at him as I put my gloves on, shaking my head in amusement.

"Write a new monograph upon it, why don't you."

"I was contemplating it."

"Good heavens, and you have the audacity to criticize _my_ writing?"

He threw back his head and laughed, the welcome sound bringing a smile to my face.

"What, you don't think I can write as well as you?"

"Holmes. On _Phoenician tin traders?_"

"Well I think it is quite fascinating."

"You and maybe three other people in the world."

He glared at me, folding his arms and pulling a childish face in a most immature fashion. I grinned at his annoyance as I slipped into his bedroom for a moment, an idea suddenly striking me.

"Cornish and Chaldean it is, then. Anything you need from town?"

"I don't believe so. Do your culinary efforts encompass a decent dinner as well as breakfast?" he called, apparently quite serious.

"I believe we can manage. It's not as if you eat much or regularly anyhow," I returned with a grin, exiting the room with another blanket for him.

He moaned melodramatically and settled back under the afghan, reaching for a book he had left on the table near the couch earlier on some ridiculous murder trial during the medieval period. Honestly, and the man called my literary tastes rubbish.

He glanced up and nodded as I left, shutting the door behind me and leaving him to his own devices for the next three or four hours.

* * *

_**Holmes**_

I set the book down when the door had closed behind my friend and sat there for a bit, pondering the man's actions. Had he intentionally forced me to be alone with my temptation?

He well knew that I at least had the courtesy to not use the drug when I knew he was around, partly to keep him off my back with his medical opinions and partly because it was simply rude in the extreme after the events of the last few days. Had he left intentionally, meaning this to be a trial for me?

Was his mind really that devious, or did he sincerely believe I needed to rest and the walk would be too much?

My mind was working far too hard to make these elementary deductions – this fog clouding my thinking processes was thinning but by no means dissipating. And that worried me. I needed something to occupy my mind, something to get the proverbial wheels spinning to bring me back to my full powers.

And now I had three hours, more probably four, for I knew Watson would be rather exhausted after such a long trudge into the town as well as being up late with me last night. I needed to ensure that such a thing did not happen again.

I lost interest in the rather poorly-researched book I was reading in record time and boredly got up to put some more coal on the fire. What in the world was I going to do for three hours? I dared not go to sleep again just yet, for I had no desire to repeat that horrible dream yet again.

I wandered about the room, trying to force my mind to work by deducing items about the last tenants of this quaint cottage, but I found that my deductions seemed rather boring and trivial when there was no one to exclaim over how incredible they were. Watson had more uses than either of us were aware of, I realised ruefully.

I ambled about the room – I always had been rather prone to pacing when bored – studiously avoiding entering my bedroom and the temptation it contained, for the better part of an hour. But finally I could take the boredom no longer and entered the bedroom in search of the newspaper clippings I had brought with me from London; I had fallen behind on my common-place books and brought the latest one with me as a project.

But even as I began to unpack, that confounded pain began to once more make itself felt, and I found I had to rest for a bit from lifting the valises and books. I sat, or rather flopped, down upon the bed and lay back, wincing as my aching head protested the rapid movement, wrapping the afghan Watson had folded across the foot of the bed closely round me.

For a moment I lay there, trying to get a grip upon myself, wishing for the spasms to pass and feeling oddly lonely, wishing my friend would return quickly. But as time went on, I glanced over at the still-open drawer of my bedside table with its contents in plain sight.

As if in a hypnotic trance, I remained staring at it until a loud calling of a seagull just outside the window broke the spell momentarily, and I started in surprise, wishing that twinge of guilt I had just felt would leave me.

My irritation at the guilt flashed angrily through my mind, and I pulled the case from the drawer, drowning my conscience in a sea of justification. I was in pain, I wanted the drug, Watson would never know, and I would not take a full dosage, just a small…

My thoughts trailed away as I saw something else lying in the drawer underneath the Moroccan case. I pulled it out, seeing it to be a small leather-bound book, similar to those blasted journals Watson was always writing in.

Curious, I lifted it from the drawer, forgetting about the case and the cocaine for a moment, and glanced at the item. Had it been left by a previous occupant of the house? But I did not remember seeing it yesterday…

I stopped as I opened it, seeing a very familiar strong handwriting inside.

_So you believe you can write as well as I, eh Holmes? I __dare__ you to try it sometime when you're bored. May I suggest the cliffs by the west end of the beach – atmosphere is perfect for inspiration, even on Phoenician tin-traders._

_W_

I stared for a moment at the page before feeling a laugh rise in the back of my throat. My dear Watson.

I got up to scramble round for a pencil and my coat. No man challenges Sherlock Holmes and comes off the victor.

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**_To be continued..._**


	10. Chapter 10

_**Watson**_

It was evening, almost dark by the time I made it back to the cottage. The walk to town was further than I had anticipated and it had taken me longer to accomplish my errands than I had wished. I found several books on the ancient Cornish language for my friend and then arranged for a housekeeper to come and clean twice weekly until we left.

There had also been a telegram waiting for me at the tiny office from Mycroft Holmes.

APPRECIATE YOUR EFFORTS WATSON STOP PLEASE KEEP INFORMED OF PROGRESS MADE STOP TAKE WHATEVER STEPS NECESSARY STOP REGARDS MYCROFT.

I had sent a short reply saying that it was too early to tell but it looked like a tiny bit of progress was being made at least, and then I gathered up the books and a few supplies for meals and headed on my way back to the cottage.

But within an hour I began to feel the strain in my bad leg, and I wished fervently that I had chartered a cab or at least a dog-cart to take me back out – those confounded volumes grew heavier by the second.

I therefore was more than a little relieved to see a small trap about to intersect with the road I was on, pulling up beside me and stopping.

"Hallo there, sir! I don't recall seeing you around these parts before!"

The driver was an amiable looking clergyman with a pleasant smile and more importantly, an empty seat beside him in the vehicle, which he now offered to me. I accepted eagerly, telling him where I was headed.

"It isn't too far out of my way, I should be happy to take you there. You're limping – are you injured?"

"Not recently, Reverend. Afghan War," I replied. "Dr. John Watson. I am here with my friend Sherlock Holmes, on holiday –"

"Sherlock Holmes? The London detective?" the man asked curiously.

"Quite. His health has not been too good lately and I have prescribed a period of complete rest for him."

My words were true, in a certain sense; I would not lie to a man of the cloth but neither would I tell the world the true facts behind my friend's collapse.

"My name is Roundhay, Doctor, Arthur Roundhay – vicar of this parish. You're in that little cottage off the Bay, aren't you?"

I nodded, and the amicable little clergyman began to eagerly detail to me some rather fascinating legends about the Poldhu Bay and surrounding area. Obviously the man was the talkative type and was thrilled to have a somewhat helpless listener who had not heard his tales before.

I stifled a smile at the thought that the man would probably drive Holmes to sad distraction if the detective ever got in the clutches of his romantic stories; but I rather enjoyed them, and the ride too, for I was thoroughly exhausted.

"You must both come and take tea with me some day when Mr. Holmes is feeling strong enough – this path will take you directly to Treddanick Wallos and you can't miss the vicarage," my new companion detailed eagerly, "it is always a treat to have visitors from the city and I should be very happy to meet your famous friend. When he is well enough, naturally, Doctor."

"I'm sure we should be glad to accept your invitation, Vicar, with thanks," I replied, finally edging a statement in among his incessant chatter.

"Ah, wonderful. Nearly there now. Beautiful cottage, hope you are liking your stay. Have you been to the cliffs yet? You really must walk further up the south beach – the view is splendid. Do you sketch, Doctor? It would be the perfect place for an artist to receive inspiration. By the by, are you or Mr. Holmes interested in archaeology?"

I had punctuated these rapid questions with nods or an occasional murmured assent, and Roundhay had continued as if I was literally conversing with him. Quite a character, this clergyman. I winced at the thought of Holmes actually having tea with the man – my friend was not overly patient with people who talked incessantly, preferring my 'grand gift of silence' to conversation most times.

"Archaeology?" I managed to slip in the conversation.

"Yes, indeed. I am something of an amateur archaeologist myself."

"Mr. Holmes might definitely be interested; I shall certainly mention it before we come to visit you, Reverend."

There, I had actually got a whole sentence out before the man started up again about the village of Treddanick Wallos, detailing its history and its occupants to me in very broad terms. I confess to being a trifle relieved when we reached the door of the cottage.

I hopped down from the trap, glancing at the windows and being rather glad to see a flickering light inside – it was rather chilly with darkness falling now. Roundhay handed me my bundles.

"Any time Mr. Holmes is feeling up to it, please do call. It's not far, just follow the path there," he called, waving cheerily to me and flicking the reins, moving the horse onward on the path.

I fumbled a wave and then tried to get the door open without dropping the packages I was holding. It proved to be unmanageable, and I was just about to set the books down when it swung open, the thin figure of my friend framed in the doorway clad in his dressing gown, his brow furrowed slightly.

"I was getting a little worried about you, Watson - it looks as if a storm is blowing up," he said, taking the books from me and stepping out of the way.

"I'm sorry, I took longer than I planned," I replied wearily, setting the packages down on the hall table and trying to scrutinise him without being obvious about the fact.

"You're limping - more of a walk than you thought, eh?" he asked, taking my coat from me and giving me a gentle push towards the fire.

"Brilliant deduction, Holmes."

"Remind me to thank whoever that was that brought you back," he said, his sharp eyes flitting over me as I walked over to the fire to warm up. I sat heavily in a chair and glanced back at him.

"The Reverend Arthur Roundhay," I began to reel off the description with a grin, rubbing my hands together to warm them, "vicar of the parish here. He's invited us to tea sometime when you are feeling strong enough. Appears to be well-stocked mentally on anything and everything pertaining to this part of the country and its history. He says he's an archaeologist of sorts, Holmes. So if you can endure the romance of the rest of his conversation you might enjoy talking to him."

Holmes grimaced at the thought, and I smiled, sitting back for a moment to rest my tired limbs and taking the opportunity to glance over my friend. He appeared perfectly normal, but he had had plenty of time to take the drug and have it wear off. I refused to ask him about the matter, however.

"Are you hungry, old chap?" he asked.

I groaned at the thought of having to cook a meal when this tired, and Holmes as always read my thoughts.

"Do not fret yourself, Watson, I made some very passable sandwiches whilst you were away," he told me, his grey eyes twinkling, "if you can trust my merits as a housekeeper. I rather thought you might be tired when you came in."

"_Trust_ might not be the word I would choose, but at this point I'm rather not picky about food," I replied with a grin. "You must have been bored indeed to perform such a mundane domesticity as that."

"Bored, yes. But I assume you'd rather have me invading the kitchen than taking part in certain other activities?" he shot over his shoulder as he disappeared into the other room, leaving me staring after him.

Was he telling me in his own indirect fashion that he had _not_ used the drug?

I bit back a moan as I realised how very tired I was, mentally as well as physically. I hoped Holmes would be able to sleep tonight so that I could go to bed slightly earlier than I had the last night. He returned in a moment, deftly balancing a tray of sandwiches and a teapot.

"Tea?"

"Don't tell me you made tea too!"

"What? I can make tea just fine!"

"With your chemistry equipment, yes, but I don't believe I've ever seen you make it in the usual fashion," I replied dubiously.

Holmes snorted and poured me a cup, passing it to me. I warily tasted it, then sighed with relief.

"I told you so."

"All right, all right, I apologise," I said with a grin, biting into my sandwich.

I watched him carefully as he sat a little stiffly, noticing that his lips were pressed tightly together. He must be in a deal of pain then.

"Were you able to rest at all, Holmes?" I asked, sipping my tea.

"I was too busy."

I nearly dropped my cup in surprise. "Too busy?"

He grinned at me almost shyly, reaching into the pocket of his dressing gown and pulling out the journal I had hidden in his drawer. That meant he _had_ considered using the drug after all. I felt my face flush, and I hid my gaze in my sandwich, uncertain of what to say. But apparently he was not offended but rather quite amused at my attempt to provoke him into doing something to occupy his mind.

He made no mention of the fact, however, as was his nature, and neither did I as he riffled through the pages. Finally he found the one he wanted and pushed the book across the small table to me. I picked it up, expecting to see some block of prose that he wished my opinion of.

But I stopped chewing in my surprise, staring at the page in disbelief and something similar to awe. Then I swallowed and glanced up at him. He was fidgeting nervously with his teacup, finally looking up to meet my eyes.

"Well?" he asked hesitantly.

"After fifteen years, you just _now_ show me that you can do this?" I gasped.

He snorted. "Really, Watson, it should have been rather an elementary deduction."

"Yes, yes, I know, art in the blood and all that. But Holmes!"

"Do you – do you like it?"

I nearly laughed aloud at his endearing hesitancy.

"I'm insanely jealous – I've always wanted to be able to capture things like this," I replied honestly, staring at the simple pencil sketch of what obviously were the black cliffs and the choppy waters of the Poldhu Bay at the location that I had suggested to him.

There was a simple clarity about the sketch that bespoke of his analytical nature, but the detailing was minute and the shading perfect; I could instantly recognise the very spot he had been sitting.

"It's marvellous," I said frankly, "you should do more, Holmes."

"Really?"

"Really."

I did laugh then, for the incredulity on his pale face turned into a very proud blush under my praise.

"Well it was rather an enjoyable way to spend two hours," he replied carelessly, pocketing the journal as I handed it back to him.

"Good, I'm glad," I replied soberly, finishing off my sandwich.

We sat for a while in the most comfortable silence we had spent since his near-fatal brush with the drug.

"Oh, I got those books for you, Holmes," I said finally, rising and limping over to the pile of packages, "they're here somewhere."

I finally located the correct bundle and indicated it. Holmes eagerly opened the package and began to voraciously pore over the books.

"Splendid, Watson! Just what I was wanting!" he exclaimed, eagerly turning a page.

"Good, it took me close to two hours to find them in that mess they call an organised shelving system," I said wearily, rubbing a hand over my eyes, "honestly, these country libraries!"

I brought my hand away to see Holmes glancing up from his precious volumes with concern.

"You look done in, Watson. Go ahead and retire, I shall be fine, I promise," he said quietly.

"You need to rest, Holmes, not sit up all night reading," I warned.

"I shall, I give you my word. Now go on, old fellow, you've done enough for me today," he replied, patting the journal in his pocket meaningfully.

I stifled a yawn, and he smiled fondly at me, looking far better than I had seen him yet since this whole business began.

"Good night, then."

"Good night, my dear Watson."

And I left him there, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the sitting room surrounded by his precious ancient tomes as I entered my bedroom and, despite the ache in my limbs, within a half-hour drifted into a deep sleep.

I had no way of knowing then that this pleasant interlude was merely the lull before the storm, both outside the cottage and in.

* * *

**_To be continued...reviews appreciated as always!_**

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A/N: Since this is Granada-based and not Canon-based, I cite _The Eligible Bachelour_ as evidence that Holmes can draw, at least passably. Again, it's at least Granadical.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: In case anyone is listening to the BBC Radio version of DEVI that I recently put up on YouTube, I probably should inform you that I am drawing heavily on that for the Vicar's personality and a few other minor details (my apologies to Bert Coules) as well as upon the Granada version. But the story should make sense even if the reader has not heard or watched either of those.**

* * *

_**Watson**_

I awoke the next morning to pouring rain and crashing thunder outside the small cottage, making sinking back to sleep not a viable option. My leg was aching miserably as well, and I glanced at my watch in some annoyance, only to be surprised at the realisation that it was half-past ten.

I had slept late, even for my lazy habits, and Holmes must have let me, knowing I was exceptionally tired after such a trying last few days. I rose wearily, a loud clap of sudden thunder followed almost instantly by a brilliant flash of lightning momentarily blinding me, and I fumbled for the candle.

I performed my toilette quickly, wondering if Holmes had spent a restful night, donned my dressing gown and went to the sitting room.

I opened the door to see him pacing about fretfully, casting glances at the windows streaming with the heavy rain. Not a good sign – this was going to be a long day, I could feel it already.

"Morning, Holmes," I said tentatively, helping myself to a cup of coffee and glancing about the room.

His only answer was an ill-tempered growl as he stopped and stared moodily out at the landscape. I cursed the storm for its bad timing – Holmes's moods fluctuated with the weather even when he was feeling his best, and now when he was struggling to overcome this depression and drug this was the worst possible time to have a storm.

I saw that the library books I had gathered the night before were strewn carelessly about, some of them opened to certain pages and pads of heavily scribbled paper littering the floor around them.

"Were you up all night reading?" I demanded in disapproval, fixing him with a reproving look.

"Not the whole night, no," he growled petulantly, "just early this morning. To blazes with that blasted rain, why did it have to storm today!"

He appeared to be very irritable, nervous almost, as if something was making him edgy. I wondered if he had been plagued with nightmares yet again but knew he would take affront were I to ask him about the idea.

"When would you like breakfast, Holmes?" I attempted to draw him from that black mood he was in.

"I wouldn't," he snapped, picking up one of his books and leafing through the pages.

"Holmes, you must eat –"

"I am not in need of more medical opinions, Doctor," he growled, scowling blackly at me.

He obviously was in a dreadfully depressed mood and I was rather irritable myself, my leg throbbing and the storm heightening the already tense atmosphere of the small cottage. We had nowhere to escape to, and so I fixed myself some toast and went back into my bedroom to spend the morning writing, leaving Holmes to his own devices.

But as I absently chewed on the end of my pencil, my mind wandering from the story at hand for the hundredth time in the last three hours, I could not shake off that feeling of foreboding that was hanging over me. The storm had apparently blown itself out, only the wind remaining of the fury of the morning, but the air still seemed electrified with tension.

I gave up trying to put articulate thoughts down upon paper finally and started back out to the sitting room to check on whatever Holmes had been amusing himself with all the morning.

As I opened the door, I saw that he was nowhere to be seen – must be in his bedroom. I took my dishes out to the kitchen and performed the mundane but necessary task of washing them and putting them away. The domestic work allowed my thoughts some freedom to wander, and I turned over and over in my mind what I could do to continue to occupy Holmes's mind without insulting him by trying to do so.

After a half-hour I was no nearer a solution than before, and I made my way despondently back out to the sitting room, only to stop short when I saw Holmes.

He was just putting a syringe back into my medical bag along with various implements he had evidently removed in his search!

I was dumbfounded – he had the nerve to use _my_ supply of the drug instead of his, so that if I checked his syringe I would find it unused? He was stealing my drugs from my medical bag before my very eyes to keep up a pretense that he was really staying off the cocaine?

"Holmes!"

He dropped the bag and whirled around, startled.

"Watson – I thought –"

"What the devil do you think you're doing?" I demanded hotly, feeling my face flush in anger.

He stared at me almost as if in puzzlement.

"Don't give me that look! How dare you!"

"What the deuce are you going on about, Watson?"

"You know exactly what I'm going on about!" I cried, stung by his prevarication as much as his actually stealing my own drug, supposed to be only used for medicinal purposes. "I should have known better than to leave my bag where you could get your hands on it!"

Holmes glanced down at the bag, then back at me, and his brows furrowed into a black knot.

"Of all the nerve, your stealing my drugs and using them instead of your own just so that it will continue to appear that you're staying off that infernal cocaine!" I heard my voice break and the fact made me even angrier.

"Watson, I am not –"

"I don't want to hear your excuses!" I snapped, glaring at him with a fury I had not felt since I had first found out about his reverting to the drug. "If you want to slowly kill yourself with that devilish substance then do it, but do not try to use my supplies to accomplish that end! I should have known you couldn't be trusted with the stuff lying about!"

He had not shown much expression until that last statement, which I regretted the instant it had left my mouth. I bit my tongue to prevent myself from making matters worse as his face flushed an angry red and he looked at me with a very indignant and furious glare.

"Doctor. You have made a very serious error in judgment," he said, his voice dangerously chilling.

"Oh, really. What do you call getting into my things and using for your own pleasure what I only keep around as a topical anesthetic? I never dreamed you would stoop so low," I snapped back at him.

Holmes flushed darker and he took a step toward me, then stopped. He took a deep breath and some of the colour left his face, the complete rage leaving his eyes to be replaced by what appeared to be deep hurt. Hurt? I could understand guilt, but not hurt. Why…

But before I could consider the matter he had spun on his heel, grabbed his overcoat, and left the cottage, slamming the door behind him and disappearing down the path, head bent against the wind.

Fine. If he wished to be an idiot and ramble about in the wind then so be it – it would give him a chance to walk off that drug anyhow, confound him!

I stood for a moment, seething, and then reason began to reassert itself and rationality started to once more control my thoughts. I had been harsh and rude – lost my hot temper yet again and it only had made matters worse. Why did I do these things?

I slumped against the wall in my despair – I was never going to get him to give up the drug if I could not control my anger at his reversals. I sighed wearily and walked over to the table, starting to put the implements back into my bag.

Then suddenly my heart nearly stopped, and I pounced upon the phial that held my small supply of cocaine – one of many drugs and sedatives that I kept in my bag at all times.

It was still full, to the brim.

He hadn't touched it.

I stared at it for a moment. He had not touched it, unless…unless he had refilled it with water or something. I went into his bedroom and checked his own Moroccan case – there had been nothing gone from his supply either.

I went back to my bag, picking up the phial once more, wondering if he had replaced it with some other liquid. But then suddenly my gaze fell upon the table beside me. A nearly drained water glass with a filmy white residue at the bottom stood there along with an empty paper packet. I felt a cold hand grip round my throat as I realised what an error I had made.

He had been merely searching through my things for a headache powder, nothing more harmful.

I slumped down into the nearest chair, my mind spinning in my consternation and remorse – he had just been trying to relieve the intense pain I knew he was feeling – he had removed some items to find the correct powder and was replacing them when I had exited the kitchen. It was sheer bad luck that he had been in the act of returning a syringe when I had entered.

I had made a grievous error.

I had accused him of stealing, of lying to me about the fact, and – worst of all – of using the drug when all he had been doing was getting an innocent pain reliever.

I groaned, dropping my weary head into my hands. No wonder he had looked so shocked and hurt – he had done absolutely nothing to deserve that faithless outburst; I had jumped to a totally wrong conclusion and had then lost my temper because of it, accusing him of the very thing he was trying so hard not to do.

I swallowed hard and went to my room to get my tweed jacket, shoving the empty packet into my pocket on my way out the door, dreading what was to follow but knowing it had to be done.

I saw from the top of the cliffs a dark figure walking slowly along the beach, and within five minutes I had made my way down to it, slipping more than once on the wet path and cursing my aching leg. But I deserved all the pain and more for what I had done, albeit unwittingly.

Holmes had stopped walking and was sitting on one of a large group of rocks, still damp with the previous rain and the salt spray. The wind was whipping about and the seagulls that had taken cover from the storm were just now emerging from their hiding places, whistling softly about the amount of wet on everything.

A grey wave splashed upon the shore, sending a bunch of them scattering as I took a deep breath and walked over to where he was sitting, huddled up miserably with his back against a large grey boulder.

He neither looked at me nor said a word as I rather breathlessly sat beside him on the edge of the boulder, fidgeting nervously with my gloves. He remained silent, staring out over the grey water with a pained, narrowed gaze.

For a good five or six minutes we sat there, neither of us moving, and I was acutely aware of the painful silence broken only by the crashing surf and the screaming gulls. Finally I could take it no longer.

"Holmes, I – I am so sorry," I blurted out, not daring to look at him, drawing the paper packet from my pocket and holding it in my shaking hands, "I – was completely wrong in what I did, it was inexcusably rude. Can you – can you forgive me for what I said, for not trusting you?"

I dropped my gaze to my trembling hands, angered with myself beyond belief for my actions, gripping the paper so hard it began to tear.

I saw a black-gloved hand reach over and firmly remove it from my own, and I glanced up at his pale face, as he stared out over the choppy water.

"I always have said that correct deduction is _not_ one of your abilities, Watson," he said at last.

I winced, but knew I deserved that and much worse for what I had done.

"Deduction or no, I was wrong, and I'm very sorry," I said in shame, putting my chin down upon my cupped hand and staring moodily out over the Bay. "Can you – forgive me?"

I felt him shift in his seat and turn toward me, and I sat up and met his eyes at last.

"It was a perfectly natural and logical deduction, Watson," he sighed, "given the fact that I have already committed equally covert transgressions in the recent past."

"That makes no difference, I –"

"And you have had to forgive quite a bit from me, my dear chap," he interrupted me, his austere eyes softening for the first time, "I believe 'tis only fair play to return the favour."

I visibly relaxed, the wave of relief swamping me with its intensity, and he chuckled outright, sitting back against the rock and motioning me to do the same beside him.

"You are in pain, then?" I asked hesitantly, "why didn't you tell me?"

"There was no need, you were busy writing and I knew what to take," he replied wearily, leaning back and folding his arms as a gust of wind whipped about us.

I sighed, following his gaze over to the cliffs. We sat that way in silence for several minutes, and then I hesitantly broke the quiet.

"This is where you were sitting when you drew that lovely sketch yesterday, wasn't it?" I asked wistfully.

He smiled and flushed slightly, nodding. For a moment we said nothing, then he looked at me out of the corner of his eye a little shyly.

"Would you like to learn the basics, Watson?"

I sat bolt upright in my excitement, nearly knocking my head into the rocky ledge above us and setting him chuckling again.

"Do you think I can?" I asked eagerly.

"Unless you are completely bereft of the ability to draw a straight line, then yes," he said mischievously.

I was thrilled at the idea – not only would it be enjoyable for me but it would give him something to do, to occupy his mind for another afternoon.

"Have you a journal with you?"

"Naturally," I retorted, pulling out my ever-present leather-backed notebook with a grin.

"I have one condition," he warned as I scooted closer to watch him.

"Name it," I replied eagerly.

"If I am to teach you how to sketch, then you have to teach me how to write a passable story," he said, shaking his pencil at me playfully, "for I found it deucedly more difficult than I had at first imagined!"

"It's a bargain," I said with a grin, extending my hand.

And with the handclasp came the feeling of the storm clouds being pushed back, for a while at least. And if I had anything to do with it, I vowed, they would not reappear on the horizons in the near future.

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**_To be continued...reviews would be phenomenal!_**


	12. Chapter 12

"No, no, no, Watson. Don't you see how the shadows darken the closer you get toward the foot of the cliffs?"

"You know, I'm beginning to regret this."

"Oh, come on."

"I'm serious."

"Here, let me see."

I relinquished the pencil as Holmes leaned over my shoulder to show what I was doing wrong, my annoyed tone belying the actual enjoyment I was getting out of our impromptu drawing lesson.

"See? Longer, bolder strokes here, and lighter ones toward the top. There."

I glared at the page where he had fixed my mistakes to make a semi-recognisable sketch as he handed the pencil back to me and sat back against the rock, removing the thick scarf from his neck; it was warming up after the morning's rain and now, late afternoon, was quite sunny and almost balmy.

"I'm hopeless," I said in dismay, shutting the book and handing it over to him.

He chuckled lightly, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.

"You can hardly expect to become an artist in one day, Watson. How many stories did you write before you finally got one published?"

"Too many," I said ruefully, shifting positions as my leg ached, having got cramped from sitting in one position for so long.

"There, you see?"

"See nothing, I only got published because the public is fascinated with your character."

"I have told you on a previous occasion, I do not agree with modesty being a virtue, Watson," he replied indignantly, shaking the pencil at me, "you entirely under-rate your abilities with the pen."

"If you think so, why do you manage to work the phrase 'ridiculous romanticism' into every conversation about my stories?" I asked in a combination of amusement and warmth at hearing his rare, albeit indirect, praise.

"Because I _do_ rank accuracy and truth among the virtues," he replied with a grin.

I snorted and watched as he opened the book once more to a blank page, idly doodling along the margins, his eyes on our peaceful surroundings. I followed his amused gaze and saw two seagulls fighting over something on the beach - apparently a fish or shell of some sort, squawking angrily at each other and whistling loud enough to draw a crowd of onlooking birds.

I heard him laugh softly and turned to look at him.

"Holmes?"

"I rather imagine the two of us looked rather like that this morning," he snickered, glancing at me mischievously.

I winced at the jab, and his smile widened. He turned back to the journal, taking up the pencil and beginning a swift sketch. I scooted closer to watch over his shoulder as he rapidly and apparently effortlessly detailed the amusing scene, first outlining and then filling in the small details.

I gave a dismayed squawk that sounded rather like those confounded gulls' screeches when I watched him in a fit of wicked mischief put our initials under the birds in the simple sketch and write the date with a flourish, presenting the thing to me with a half-bow and breaking into a rather undignified laugh at my red face.

"You're never going to let me forget that one, are you?"

"No, I am not," he returned with a grin, standing to his feet and stretching, "you may keep that as a reminder to leave the deducing to me, Watson."

"Touché," I muttered ruefully, shoving the book in my pocket after glancing once more at the absurd drawing.

We started back along the pathway, and I noticed my leg was rather getting worse – the storm must be sure to be coming back. One look at the sky corroborated my thoughts as a cloud obscured the sun and the blue started to take on a grey tinge as we made our rapid way up the steep cliff-side.

Just then I slipped on the still-damp path and fell to one knee (my bad one, confound it), sending a shower of sandy soil slithering down the path below me. My soft grunt of pain had been heard by Holmes, however, for he came back and offered me a hand.

"You are hardly strong enough to get _yourself_ back up that path, much less me," I growled, slipping as I tried to regain my footing and finally grabbing his wrist to steady myself.

"I am improving rather well, Doctor," he declared loftily, "you, on the other hand…"

"I'll be the judge of that," I retorted, finally regaining my feet and glaring at him, "and if you so much as mutter 'Physician, heal thyself', I shall make _you_ fix supper tonight _and_ wash the dishes!"

He laughed and put a firm hand under my elbow as we continued to climb.

"Are you really certain you want me puttering about the kitchen?"

"On second thought, no, I've seen you try to fix dinner before," I said ruefully.

"When was that?"

"In the early days, when Mrs. Hudson came so close to throwing us out after you nearly burned the whole flat down experimenting with that kerosene and sulphuric acid."

He winced at the remembrance.

"Those were indeed the early days. Such an experiment now would net me no more than an explosive screech and perhaps doubled rent for the month, not an eviction threat and no meals until the damage was repaired like it was back then."

I smiled at the memory, remembering how very odd Holmes had seemed to me at that point in time.

"What is so amusing, Watson?"

"You really were the oddest chap in those days, you know."

"I doubt that anything has changed in fifteen years except your tolerance level," he replied dryly as we neared the cottage.

Holmes opened the cottage door, pushing me inside just as a distant rumbling shook the air.

"Storm's coming back," I remarked, glancing out at the gathering clouds and flinging my coat over a chair.

"Now _that_ actually is a sound deduction, Watson."

I glared at him, and his face assumed that innocent what-did-I-say-now look he was so fond of giving me when I grew more exasperated than was normal with him. I shook my head and moved slowly over to coax some life into the fire, stirring up the coals and blowing on them.

"Like a drink, Watson?" Holmes bellowed loudly from the kitchen. Honestly, the man could not just step to the door and call?

"Not until after supper, thank you," I shouted back.

Holmes poked his head out of the kitchen momentarily.

"Shall I –"

"_No_," I stated emphatically, hastily arising from my kneeling position on the floor, "I want none of your infamous cooking. Is that why you aren't in the habit of eating regular meals? When you lived in Montague Street, you couldn't stand to eat your own cooking?"

"I resent that inference!"

"But you don't deny it!" I crowed in triumph, shooting him a victorious smirk as I brushed past him into the kitchen.

He growled something that sounded suspiciously like 'insufferable quack', which I ignored; verbal sparring matches with Sherlock Holmes never ended in my favour.

I had no doubt that the powder he had taken had worn off and he had to be feeling rather poorly despite his apparent good humour. But I knew that he would be offended if I offered him another, and actually it would be better for his body if he refrained from all such remedies, letting his mind and body grow accustomed to the pain instead of taking temporary refuge from it.

The storm that was now hitting the cottage as I prepared a hasty meal was not going to help his health or his mood any, and I fervently hoped it would be gone by morning. He needed fresh air as much as rest, and the afternoon had done much to improve his condition; I definitely would try to repeat the occurrence in the future.

We spent a rather quiet dinner, occasionally chatting over some completely random topic as my companion was so fond of doing, and afterwards sat by the fire, I reading a novel I had found on the case in my bedroom and he snipping news clippings out and pasting them into his common-place book, getting paste everywhere in the process.

When I ventured a small remark about possibly putting a sheet down to protect the carpet, he fixed me with such a black look that I hastily went back to my story. His mood was already swinging to a dark irritability – not a good sign.

I kept a wary eye on him for the next two hours, but he appeared to be venting his frustration rather well on the work before him and seemed to be managing his pain as best he could. I saw him start to shiver at one point and offered him an afghan, which he brusquely refused.

But after I emerged from my bedroom a moment later after returning the half-read book to the shelf, he had gotten over his pride and was sitting with it wrapped round him. I watched in amusement as he tried to prize off a cutting that had stuck to the fabric because of the paste, growling all the while as if the paper could actually hear him.

"Do you need anything, Holmes?"

He glanced up, mid-rant, and shook his head.

"Then I believe I shall turn in. Call me if you want me," I continued, stifling a wide yawn.

He barely acknowledged my words, peeling off the damp paper and scowling blackly at it. I hid a smile as I turned back to my bedroom and prepared for sleep.

* * *

The next day we spent indoors as the storm blew itself out gradually. Holmes was characteristically out-of-sorts and I was characteristically silent, letting him vent in whatever way he chose; heaven knew I was used to such things by now.

Around afternoon the storm finally ceased, the grey clouds rolling away to reveal an equally grey wet moor with its reminders of forgotten civilisations, those stone monuments dotted along the plains.

Holmes had been napping for several hours, for which I was grateful as he needed all the rest he could get, but as the sun shone a watery beam of light into the window he arose, pocketed his magnifying lens and the journal I had given him, and started into his overcoat. I made to rise, but he waved me back into my seat.

"If you think me strong enough, Doctor, I should like some time alone for introspection," he said quietly.

I felt a slight twinge of hurt that he did not want my presence but quashed it instantly, hoping that his reasons for going out alone were what I had been wishing for.

"If I _don't_ think you strong enough, you're going to go anyway," I returned with a small smile, "go on. Be back before dark, mind."

As I had expected, the rather juvenile admonition brought a smirk to his face, and he wrapped his muffler closely round his neck and set off after a reassuring glance back at me. I walked to the window and saw him start across the moor in the direction of several stone monoliths, obviously intent upon pursuing that elusive air of mystery that surrounded this place.

I could only hope and pray that this would be the start of some serious soul-searching on his part; leading to, I hoped, freedom from that devilish substance that lingered round him to threaten his remarkable brain.

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**_To be continued...reviews are welcomed as always!_**


	13. Chapter 13

_Many thanks to my loyal friend **Protector of the Grey Fortress**, who was kind enough to give me some advice about Holmes's thought processes here._

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_**Watson**_

For the next three days, I saw very little of Sherlock Holmes; he spent every moment when I was not forcing him to rest staying outside the cottage on long, solitary walks, of which he never said a word to me concerning what he was thinking or feeling.

Not that this reticence was abnormal for his temperament, but the prolonged exercise was definitely an irregularity in his Bohemian nature. However, since the longer he spent out of doors the less time his brain had to stagnate, I never said a word about the fact, despite a twinge of loneliness at being left behind on all but two of these occasions.

But my own feelings were secondary and of no importance when compared to what I could see was happening in that magnificent brain of his. I could see that his faculties were slowly returning to their potential, although they were not quite to their fullest yet. I had not caught him using the drug again, but I refused to check his case and syringe despite my better judgment, knowing that would be showing him I still did not fully trust him.

After a week of the same routine, Holmes's colour began to improve, the pain lessened a little, and his appetite returned to whatever it was that he called normal. He was able to go a whole day without taking a mid-afternoon nap, and his eyes were beginning to regain some of their fire.

But there were still some lingering demons, as well I knew. The nightmares had begun to lessen in intensity and frequency, but they still visited him on a regular basis. And he admitted once in a moment of rare confidentiality that he could tell his mental faculties were still rather clouded and dull; this admission was obviously worrying him a good deal. I could not help but wonder what was going on during these solitary times of meditation in that formidable brain of his.

After dinner one night, he pulled out the journal he had been using as his sketchbook and began to show me some of the things he had drawn while out on these walks, explaining the history behind the burial mounds and monoliths that he had been inspecting.

We had been to the Vicar Roundhay's for tea the previous afternoon as promised, and in the talkative clergyman Holmes had found a fellow archaeology enthusiast. As such, Holmes told me, the two of them had gone out last night to inspect a few of the old stone huts upon the moor and speculate as to their ancestral occupants.

I carefully hid my disappointment and resentment that Holmes had allowed that garrulous man of the cloth to accompany him on his ramblings but not me, trying to realise that perhaps the old saying was true and familiarity did breed contempt. He needed to get out of our routine and normality. And if this clergyman could occupy his mind instead of that cocaine, then I owed the man thanks and not resentment.

But a tiny part of me still harboured the feelings despite my brain telling me that _anything_ was better than his partaking in that deadly pastime I had tried so hard to break him of.

If he perceived my rather quiet demeanor the rest of that night he made no mention of it; and I doubted that he even noticed, so absorbed was he in researching that ancient Cornish language, strewing books and papers all over the carpet in his perusal of the information.

I doubt that he even realised when I finally took myself off to bed.

_**Holmes**_

I could feel my brain still struggling its way out of the fog in which it had been spinning round madly for the last week. Like a train beginning to leave a station, the movement was not even noticeable at first and I knew it would take time for it to reach its full power once again. Meanwhile, I would spend my time in some serious contemplation.

I lit my pipe and sat back on my heels, stacking up the papers I had been perusing about the Cornish language and only then realising it was well past midnight – nearly one, actually. Glancing round, I saw that Watson had apparently gone to bed long ago. Odd, that he made no move to fuss over my staying up late as he had every other night.

As a matter of fact, he had been rather quiet the whole evening – I wondered why?

I stacked the volumes into a semi-neat pile on the floor, book-marking the pages I was using for my study. The subject would make for a rather intriguing monograph, should I so desire to pursue the line of research.

As I set the pile of papers on the table, the sleeve of my dressing gown accidentally knocked Watson's latest journal off the polished surface, scattering a few yellow papers to the floor as it fell. I hastily retrieved the items and was about to stuff the telegrams back inside when my brother's name caught my eye on a wire dated a week ago.

APPRECIATE YOUR EFFORTS WATSON STOP PLEASE KEEP INFORMED OF PROGRESS MADE STOP TAKE WHATEVER STEPS NECESSARY STOP REGARDS MYCROFT

Then, there was another, dated this morning.

AM GLAD TO HEAR SHERLOCK IMPROVING STOP REGARDING LAST MESSAGE DO CEASE TO BERATE YOURSELF DOCTOR STOP AM CONVINCED IF ANYONE CAN REACH HIM YOU ARE THE ONE STOP PLEASE CONTINUE TO KEEP INFORMED AND MANY THANKS STOP MYCROFT.

I read over the last message again…dated this morning, he must have gone to town while I was out, then. It was no wonder he was so tired all afternoon and evening after I got back. The message itself captured my attention, however – _Regarding last message, do cease to berate yourself, Doctor. Am convinced if anyone can reach him you are the one._

They had been in correspondence from the beginning, I had no doubt, but why did Mycroft say something of that sort? Was Watson blaming himself for my inability to fully give up that drug?

I cast a troubled glance at his closed bedroom door as I replaced the telegrams and shut the journal, resisting the urge to read my friend's private writings. Why would he blame himself for my folly?

I had come to the realisation after many long hours of pondering and deep meditation that it was indeed my folly and no one else's, and that nothing short of my own will could possibly be strong enough to break the habit. If it could not be overcome by my own mind and willpower, then it could not be overcome at all.

But obviously Watson was taking this whole affair very, very seriously, as if it were his fault somehow; I was only just now beginning to realise just how worried he truly was. And the thought troubled me more than I should like to ever admit. He was altogether too concerned about my health and safety, always had been – I was undeserving of that kind of care for I rarely reciprocated it, at least visibly.

I felt my brows furrow in thought, suddenly realising my pipe had gone out unnoticed. I retrieved my tobacco-pouch and relit it, curling up into a chair by the fire. I had definitely a three-pipe problem to ponder.

My mind reverted to that near-fatal afternoon a little over a week ago when I had made the mistake that started this entire train of events, each detail (of what I could remember through the drug-induced haze) etched clearly in my memory, the clearest of them being Watson almost shouting at me, "Don't you _dare_ die on me again!"

I frowned darkly. I would never have intentionally inflicted the kind of pain I had heard in his voice during that night and the ones to follow; I had been previously described as cold and calculating, but even I would never deliberately be that heartless. Perhaps this…vice of mine, was dangerous not just because of the damage it would cause to my mind but because of what it would do to my friend.

I had always been a firm believer in fair play and my own sense of personal justice. Where was the justice in endangering my relations with the only man in the world tolerant enough of me to be my friend? Even _my_ unemotional brain recognised the unfairness of continually indulging in something that obviously was painful to him.

I glanced automatically to my bedroom, where I knew that Moroccan case and its dangerous contents still remained in my bedside table drawer.

Watson did not know that I had, one time and only one time this week, used the drug. I had woken up in a cold sweat from another of those awful visions and without thinking of the consequences had given in to the pull of the cocaine that night. But he refused, due to his innate tact and trust in me, to check my supply to see if I had done so, so I doubted if he even knew what I had done.

Then perhaps I could simply continue once we got back to Baker Street as I had been, only using it when he was out of the flat; heaven knew he was out often enough and it would be fairly easy to hide the matter from him. He need never know – and even if he did realise what I was doing, I knew him well enough to know he would say nothing.

No, no. I could not go on the rest of my life hiding the thing from him; it was not feasible for one thing, and for another, the conscience that I had thought long dormant within my heart simply would not permit it. That confounded guilt would rend my conscience apart unless I could find a way to silence it.

Besides, the fact came full circle to batter into my consciousness that using it, whether he realised it or not, was still dangerous to both of us, much as I hated to admit the fact.

Then could I simply keep it and just use it occasionally, when the craving got too bad to be withstood? Only for those times when we were without cases for more than a fortnight…we could even strike up a bargain on the matter, I promising not to use it except under certain circumstances and he holding me to that promise…I knew he would welcome any kind of victory at this point, no matter how slight.

I puffed furiously on my pipe, feeling my brows knit with the intensity of my contemplation.

But the fact remained that I already had broken a promise once – what right did I have to ask him to believe me again? I did not even know if I were physically capable of keeping my promises; how could I ask him to trust them when I did not trust myself?

And besides that, I knew better than he did that the pull of the drug was simply too strong to be merely an occasional shortcoming. I had already seen that I could not just use it once and put it away for a while. I could not simply use it when my mind was like to tear itself to pieces without material upon which to work; its deathly calling was simply too strong for even my formidable powers.

I shook myself, sternly admonishing my thought processes to strip down to bare facts and conclusions. Well then.

I could not just simply use the drug occasionally, that had already been proven to me by experience, the many times I had tried unsuccessfully to give it up; it was all or none, I had to let it go or keep it.

There was no other possible alternative.

I was startled from my rather disconcerting musings by the creaking of Watson's bedroom door, and I looked up in surprise to see him walking into the sitting room in his dressing-gown and slippers, rubbing his eyes wearily.

"Watson?"

He jumped with a small gasp, obviously not having seen me until I spoke.

"What are you doing up at this hour, Holmes?" His voice was a trifle unsteady, and the fact did not escape my notice. I glanced over him with a sharp scrutiny.

"I could ask you the same question."

For a moment we were at an impasse, neither of us willing to divulge the personal information about what was keeping us each awake. Finally I gestured to the other chair opposite me by the fire, and he moved slowly to sit; I noticed he was walking rather stiffly, no doubt exhausted from the long walk into town earlier in the day.

"What the devil are you smoking, and this late at night?" he finally asked disbelievingly, coughing as the smoke drifted his way.

I chuckled and put the pipe down.

"My apologies. I was…contemplating."

"I believe even my very limited powers could have deduced that, Holmes."

"You know, your sense of humour is rather barbed when you're tired."

"I am delighted to hear it," he replied dryly, stifling a yawn.

"I was performing some introspection – what is _your_ excuse for leaving Morpheus at this late – early, rather – hour?" I asked, hoping that my half-jesting tone did not sound too prying.

He glanced at me briefly before staring back into the glowing coals for a long minute.

"Morpheus was sending me some rather disturbing demons just now," he finally said in a low voice, barely audible enough for me to hear.

He said this as if ashamed of the idea that a nightmare could drive a man from his bed – I knew the fact all too well and would never have faulted him for it.

"I am sorry, Watson," I said sincerely, "would you like to be left alone?"

"No," he said hastily, jerking his head up, then dropping his gaze once more, his face flushing slightly, "I just wasn't expecting you to be out here, that's all."

I hesitated uncertainly, not knowing what to say or how to say it – this was definitely not my métier, and the conversation likely could get far too intimate for my usual tastes. But after his comfort many nights when I had been under the same dreadful influence fighting my own nighttime demons, it was only courteous to attempt at least to return the favour, no matter how uncomfortable it was for me to open myself to another.

"You – you have always told me that it helps to talk about them," I offered uncertainly, glancing nervously at him as he sat there, just staring moodily into the fire.

For a long few minutes, in which I was acutely aware of the ticking of the mantel clock and the very distant crashing of the surf down the cliffs, there was a dead silence as neither of us moved or spoke. Then he sighed slightly and sat up a little, shaking his head.

"Not in this case," he said quietly.

"Whyever not?"

"Because – " he stopped, hesitated, then went on. "Because it simply wouldn't. Thank you just the same."

I was not to be deterred now, however, my innate curiosity being aroused as well as my concern.

"Do you think I would make light of it?"

"No!" he cried indignantly, finally turning to look at me. Then the sudden fire left his eyes and he went on in a quieter tone. "No, I do not think you would. But just take my word for it, Holmes, it could do neither of us any good to thrash it out."

"It has to do with me, doesn't it?" I demanded, for it was only a slight deduction to perceive the reasons for his prevarications, "and you simply do not want me to know."

He opened his mouth to deny the fact, but as I have often said, Watson is not skilled at all in lying or even simple fibbing, and now he could not openly deny the statement. His glance faltered under my relentless gaze and then he looked away, back into the fire.

"Tell me, Watson," I urged quietly, wanting now very much to know what had disturbed him so about me, not caring how open and vulnerable it might make me.

He glanced back at me, and I saw his face flush again either in embarrassment or nervousness, and he looked down at the coals once more.

"It – it's nothing, Holmes."

I sighed, praying for patience and for the right words to say. "Watson, it is impossible for you to lie to _me,_ of all people. Now come on, old chap – was it something I did?"

He stiffened, then nodded slightly. A growing suspicion began to form at the back of my mind; how I hoped it was not the true solution! But from the way he was acting, the nervous glances he was shooting at me and then at my bedroom, it seemed to be the correct answer.

"It was about what I did last week, wasn't it?" I asked finally, quite loathe to vocalise the actual details of my atrocious conduct.

He finally looked me in the eyes and nodded, taking a deep breath before speaking.

"I don't know what brought it on," he said unsteadily, "you've done nothing that could trigger it, but…"

"How bad?"

"Very."

I winced. "About the – _my_ – overdose?"

He nodded, a little less nervous now that I had said the word and not him.

"In the dream I didn't – didn't make it back to the flat in time, I worked late instead," he said unsteadily, getting up to slowly pace the small sitting room, "just – walked in and found – " he broke off suddenly, stopping beside the window to look out at the dark moor.

How I cursed myself and my vice at that moment. It was bad enough that he should have to deal with my broken promises and all the rest in his waking hours – that my folly should invade his unconscious thoughts was unspeakable. How much damage was I causing by this…habit of mine?

If I had had the case and its contents with me at that moment, I probably should have impulsively thrown them into the fire – but even I had not the strength to force myself to go and get them and perform that task, knowing how badly I still wanted the drug.

"Watson, I –"

He cut me off with a wave of his hand.

"It is of no matter," he said hastily, knowing no doubt from the rising colour in my face that I was growing extremely uncomfortable, "I should not have brought it up; I promised when we first came down here I would not unless you did first."

I swallowed hard, casting about desperately for something to say that would be appropriate, or at least not inane, but failing utterly.

He glanced back at me for one moment, our eyes meeting only for an instant, and then he disappeared back into his bedroom with a murmured good-night and shut the door.

I slumped back in my chair, attempting doggedly to categorise the emotions that were threatening to cloud what amount of reason I was in possession of.

I snatched my pipe up and relit it, scowling blackly at the fire before me, my irritability of the night before completely gone in the face of a more pressing problem – one that required all my extensive faculties.

I had some very sombre thinking to do.

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**_Granada fans no doubt will have deduced where this is leading...to be continued when my life calms down a bit, probably tomorrow evening. :) Maybe faster if you review..._**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Haha, random factors have operated in my favour today and I was able to have a good chunk of time to write (or is that they operated in _your_ favour? :), so here 'tis, the next to last chapter.**

**If you have not watched the Granada episode of DEVI (I did six times during the course of writing this) the end of the chapter is very much the way it happened, as far as the climactic moment goes. Which I will not name specifically lest it spoil everything for those of you who have not seen it. Enjoy!**

* * *

_**Watson**_

I woke the next morning feeling a trifle under the weather due to a lack of restful sleep, but at least the five hours I had gotten after returning to bed from that conversation in the sitting room had not been filled with dreams like the first two hours had been.

I moved slower than usual that morning performing my ablutions and dressing, dreading going out and building the fire and so on as I had been every morning since we came here, but finally I opened the door to the sitting room and was very pleasantly surprised to see the fire had already been lit and was filling the room with warmth.

The smell of coffee was also permeating the air, and I walked over to the table. I felt a smile steal over my tired face as I saw that apparently Holmes had bestirred himself earlier than I and had made coffee and what looked to be rather edible soft-boiled eggs under the egg-warmers.

A page torn from his journal was stuck under the sugar bowl, covered in his unmistakably illegible scrawl. And people say that physicians have the worst handwriting of any mortals!

_Have gone out for a walk on the beach. If you feel my culinary skills not worth chancing, feel free to join me there. Oh, and bring along a couple of pencils._

_SH_

I laughed – at least he was in a better humour this morning than he had been yesterday, and actually I was too. In the light of unclouded reason and a sunny day, my petty jealousy over the Vicar and Holmes's connection in archaeology seemed just that, extremely petty. And as I hastened through my breakfast and then snatched my jacket and cap, that horrible dream of the last night was nearly forgotten.

I rummaged through my things to find some writing utensils but found only blunted pencils. Having no desire to spend fifteen minutes finding a knife and then sharpening them I made my way to dig through Holmes's clutter in an effort to find a passable sketching tool.

Finally I found two in his valise and was about to leave when my gaze fell upon the bedside table, the drawer of which was standing open. With no little trepidation I walked over and glanced inside, only to feel my heart sink.

That Moroccan case was there – its contents were not.

No, no, stop. I refused to believe the instant conclusion that sprang to my worried mind, remembering how wrong I had been before, but as I left the cottage my brow furrowed with worry.

Was he carrying it on him? Using it? Or had he hidden it, either to prevent himself having easy access or else not trusting me to not check up on him? What had he done with it, and why? And if he was using it, carrying it with him, why not carry the case as well? Why leave it lying open in the drawer?

I reached the bottom of the path and stopped, seeing a single long line of footprints in the sand out to where a dark figure stood silhouetted against the morning sun, gazing motionless out over the choppy waves.

After a moment's hesitation I erased the worry from my face, pushing the fact of the missing syringes and cocaine-bottle to the back of my mind, and walked out to meet him. For a moment we stood there in silence, watching the beauty of the gold sun glinting off the blue water, the occasional white plume of spray splashing up to lap close to our feet. Then Holmes's voice broke the lovely quiet.

"Eggs that bad, eh?"

I snorted with laughter, for the remark was so completely incongruous with our gorgeous surroundings that it struck me as absurdly comical.

"No, I just partook rather hurriedly," I assured him, and I saw to my amusement his face relax in relief.

For several minutes we said nothing, just standing there looking over the beauty of the place, so different in the light of a sunny day as opposed to the bleak and grey landscape that had been seen during the storms this past week.

"How are you feeling this morning?"

"I believe that's supposed to be the Doctor's line, Holmes," I said with amusement.

He made no answer, and I pressed the matter no further for actually he looked more…himself, I supposed was the word, than he had since the start of this sordid business. His whole attitude was one of almost – not quite, but almost – happiness this morning, as if some wondrous change had happened to him.

It was similar to the mood he would go into when engaged upon a case, a suppressed excitement that seemed to fairly radiate from his eager form, and a gleeful love of life that was rather contagious.

And whatever the cause, I was glad for the change, and hoped desperately that it would last.

"Shall we take a walk together, old chap?" he asked at last, tearing his eyes from the water and surf and sand and setting them upon me with a sparkle.

"Certainly," I agreed, thanking Providence for the marked improvement I could see in him.

For a few minutes we strolled together along the path leading toward Treddanick Wallos, and I was pleased to see that he had not taken his muffler or ever-present afghan with him this fine morning; a sure sign that he was physically improving. For close to a half-hour we walked along, occasionally chatting about the random topic at hand, Holmes sometimes pointing out some ancient mark of the old civilisations that had populated this mysterious region in ages gone by.

I was quite content to just let him ramble happily onward about whatever took his fancy, trying to reconcile the man beside me with the moody, morose creature that he had been for the past week. What had happened to effect such a change in my companion?

We had turned our steps backward to the cottage and were preparing to enter when we heard a horse, furiously driven, behind us, and the Vicar himself pulled up in a flurry of hoofbeats and muddy wheels, calling anxiously to us.

All my resentment of the man disappeared as I saw his panicked, half-hysterical face and manner and his companion's deathly pale features. Holmes hastily unlocked the door and we pushed the two of them inside, I trying desperately to calm the distrait Vicar while Holmes pushed a couple of extra chairs close to the still-smouldering fire.

Readers of my chronicles will no doubt recall the sordid events surrounding the death and insanity of the sister and brothers, respectively, of Mr. Mortimer Tregennis; I shall not here recount every point in that investigation for the sake of redundancy.

Suffice it to say that I was most definitely not pleased by this turn of events; Holmes was still, although improving, in recovery and needed to stay as such. I said as much to the Reverend, but between his pleading and Holmes's insatiable love for the chase, I stood not a chance of getting my way, and within fifteen minutes of the Vicar's reaching us we were in the trap headed for the house of Treddanick Wartha, where the tragedy had occurred.

Holmes glanced at me excitedly, as he fired rapid questions at the poor Tregennis fellow (at the time I felt sorry for the man, not knowing the murderer he was), and shooting random comments at me to put down in my notes, which was deucedly hard to do in a furiously moving trap.

My friend shivered once and drew his coat closer about him, and I was about to remonstrate about his exerting himself – when I at last got a good glimpse of his face, which was literally lit up with excitement, his austere eyes as sharp and lucid as they had ever been; a bit tired, but completely alert, and fairly dancing with a life and fire I had not seen since our last case.

How then could I begrudge him this?

Much as I was wary of a relapse to his health, I suddenly realised that if anything would help him recover, the very thing he lived for, his work, was of course the best cure. My sole job here would be to simply make certain he did not over-exert himself, not to keep him from the work he loved so dearly.

Not to mention, if his tremendous faculties were engaged upon a case he would be far less likely to use that devilish drug. That in itself was reason enough for me to sanction this affair.

By that evening when the investigation was concluded, Holmes was thoroughly exhausted but in a far better temper than I had seen him yet. He talked incessantly over dinner, brilliantly jumping from one topic to another far faster than my slower brain could keep pace with.

But I was exceedingly glad to see the fact, for it showed that his remarkable brain was once again returning to normality. The case had stimulated him far better than anything else he had tried yet, and obviously it had very much helped to restore his powers.

So absolutely chirpy was he that he actually challenged me to a game of chess that night – and Sherlock Holmes rarely volunteered to participate in an type of pastime that did not involve chemicals or concerts. And therefore, even though I was myself exhausted, and puzzled too by the day's events, I agreed immediately to his proposal.

Six games later, having lost five and stalemated the last, I slumped back and sighed.

"Can we stop now?"

"Oh, come now, Watson, you're getting better. And I need the mental stimulation."

"Holmes, for pity's sake, have mercy on a less brilliant being!" I said in exasperation, firmly shoving the board away.

He chuckled indulgently and lit his pipe, sending a smoke ring toward the ceiling and then beginning to discuss the Tregennis case with me. As it was well after eleven, I confess to paying very little attention; but Holmes seemed not to notice as he merrily bounced from one clue to the other, throwing ideas in my direction and then tacking off on a new slant without waiting for my opinion, all the while scribbling furiously in his notebook – obviously sketching something.

The return to what had come to be normalcy in our odd partnership was extremely welcome, but a little disconcerting so soon after his invalidity. But I could not begrudge him his case, for the change in him was simply remarkable.

Finally, after I had already dozed off twice and was nodding for the third time, he told me to go to bed and I was more than happy to obey. I left him there, eagerly scribbling away in his journal, continuing his drawing that made him smile in an unusual fashion, at least for him, and soon was fast asleep, this time in a thankfully dreamless slumber.

The next morning I was standing by my dresser buttoning my collar when I suddenly saw a black-cloaked, white-collared figure come flying up the footpath, and I groaned in dismay and hastily shrugged on my jacket just in time to hear the front door of the cottage bang open and then Holmes's voice calling on the instant for me.

The Vicar was more hysterical than he had been yesterday, babbling almost incoherently until I managed to calm him down and get the horrible information out of him that his boarder, the Tregennis man we had met yesterday, was also dead, in the same method as his late sister. (At the time, none of us knew as my readers do now that the man was a murderer of the first water.)

Holmes shifted at once into that mood which reminded me always of a human bloodhound, grabbing his coat and shoving me and the still-panicking Vicar out of the cottage and along the road toward the Vicarage, firing questions at the poor man as if interrogating a prisoner at Scotland Yard. I concentrated on keeping up with my friend's mad pace – he truly must either be feeling a bit stronger or else running on pure adrenaline; more likely a combination of both.

I will not here record the remaining events of the Cornish investigation save the one that showed us not only how these victims were murdered but also that my friend was not quite up to his usual lucidity in suggesting the unintelligent method he did to aid us in our search for the truth; namely, exposing both of us to the effects of the drug that killed two people and sent two more over the edge into insanity.

It was two days after the Tregennis man's death, during which when I did see Holmes we rarely spoke of anything other than the case at hand; which was normal for the process of investigation but rather maddening for me as I had meant to at some point address the missing syringes and his odd attitude the morning I found the drug had vanished.

Holmes had come to a solution, I knew the signs full well by now, but of course he refused to tell me anything at all about the matter; yet another source of frustration for me as I was bursting with curiosity. Finally, however, he sat me down in the cottage one afternoon and told me what he had deduced thus far about the method of death, though he did not divulge the identity of the criminal to me at that point.

Needless to say, I was horrified at his proposal that we should try the drug he had found on the lamp-guard ourselves – it was the most foolish thing I had ever heard come from his lips! For a moment I wondered if he were under the influence of that cocaine once more, so absurd did the idea seem to me; but he had none other of his normal symptoms to tell me that he was on the drug so I decided that he was merely being his energetic and rather careless (when it came to his own safety in an investigation) self.

"Of course if you are a sensible man you will have nothing to do with the matter," he ended his proposal, setting the lamp and the envelope containing the reddish powder carelessly on the table.

"If I don't, then you will do it alone, won't you?" I asked, hoping he would reply in a denial. Not so.

"I mean to have the answer," he said matter-of-factly, scooting his chair up to the table.

I took a long, shuddering breath, more than a little nervous about the whole affair. I walked backward at Holmes's request, opened the door wide to let a breeze in – at least he was wary enough to take that precaution after seeing whatever it was that drove those men to madness and the woman and Mortimer Tregennis to their deaths. Then I walked slowly back to my seat and sat on the edge of it, prepared to end this mindless experiment at the first sign of any of the symptoms.

The reader has already no doubt seen my rather vague description of the horrors I saw in that drug-induced atmosphere, hallucinations too terrible to ever truly fully describe on paper. I have never asked Holmes what he saw that afternoon – nor would I ever, for it appeared to be too horrible even for his iron nerves.

For even after I had pulled his only feebly resisting form from his chair by the lamp and half-dragged him, staggering from his weight as well as from my own horrible visions, outside and put him on the ground, he still even in the sunlight and sounds of the surf struggled against my hold, his arms flailing wildly, and I shall never in my lifetime forget his absolutely terrified cries as whatever it was that he saw still attacked him.

I was still trying to cough the awful stuff out of my throat, my vision a little blurry, but I managed to catch hold of both his arms and hold them from his wild thrashing, shouting desperately at him over and over as he continued to fail to recognise me.

Dear God, had the drug already driven him to madness like those two Tregennis brothers?

I could have cried with relief when finally his bloodshot eyes lost a little of that crazed fear and fastened upon my face as I shouted hoarsely, trying to snap him out of whatever horror he was seeing.

"Holmes! For the love of heaven can you hear me, man?!"

For an instant he stopped struggling, and then I saw a tiny spark of reason light in his crazed eyes and his last frightened cry trailed away as he stared at me, obviously unseeing for a moment. Then, and only then, I saw recognition, and his normally controlled voice broke down completely.

"**John**!"

"Thank God you're all right!" I gasped, my voice shaking, my frightened mind not even registering at that moment that he had used my Christian name, a hitherto unheard-of occurrence, "That was a stupid and dangerous thing to do – we could have been _killed_!"

He had grasped his hair with both hands and then rubbed them across his eyes as if to dispel whatever lingered there, and then shocked me by grabbing me as tightly as his shaking grip would allow, as if wanting desperately to cling to something tangible, gasping out some kind of apology that I barely listened to in my anger and worry.

I slipped a gentle arm under his shoulders and helped him to sit up – the man was shaking worse than I was, and no wonder – having been far closer to the lamp than I and without the aid of the breeze that had lessened the effects for me. And he refused to let go even after getting to a sitting position, clutching the front of my jacket in a death-grip, shuddering violently, his breathing no more than shallow gasps.

I coughed a bit of the deadly vapours out of my throat and then put one arm round him; and then after a moment's hesitation the other, holding him tightly as he shook and trembled and tried desperately to regain his annihilated composure.

"Forgive me," I heard him whisper hoarsely from my shoulder.

"You bloody _idiot_," I murmured shakily, blinking my vision mostly clear and tightening my hold as a long shudder passed through him.

It was only then that it filtered through my mind that he had called me by my first name – never before had he done so and never since has he. Why we had never come to call each other by first names was a mystery I never had tried to solve.

In the early days, of course, we were unfamiliar with each other; and I supposed by the time we knew each other well enough to do so our surnames had become far more endearing and intimate than our Christian names would have been; they simply did not feel right to us. Besides, my friend was so strictly Bohemian by nature that he rather liked the slight distinction, the old-fashioned formality.

But here, in the throes of whatever terror he was escaping from, his distant and collected composure had snapped completely – as evidenced in the fact that the first words out of his mouth upon his return to sanity had been my first name.

He obviously had been far more terrified and shaken than he even appeared. I instinctively tightened my grip on my shivering friend as we sat there for several long minutes in silence.

Finally with the combination of the soothing crashing of the waves, the wind and the gulls, the sun shining its watery way through the clouds, as well as my comforting voice and support, Holmes finally began to calm down after the near-fatal ordeal, and he hastily pushed back from my grip as if ashamed to have been clinging so tightly to me, his deathly white face flushing slightly in obvious embarrassment.

After a minute or two of silence, in which time he finally got his too-rapid breathing under control, he mopped his perspiring forehead with his handkerchief, then staggered to his feet and offered me an unsteady hand, gently pulling me to mine.

"Stay here, I'll go get that lamp," I said, starting for the door.

"No, Watson!" he exclaimed, grabbing my arm, "this was entirely my fault – and you look as bad as I feel. Go sit in the arbour there and I shall rejoin you when I've tossed it over the cliffs."

At my immediate denial, he took my scarf from round my neck with a reassuring look and started to hold it over his mouth and nose.

"I am not taking any chances, old chap. Now go on, before you fall over."

Actually I was not feeling well at all, the adrenaline rush from seeing Holmes slowly going mad in front of me and having to stop it now draining from my body all too rapidly, leaving me feeling rather sick and shaky. Not to mention those fumes – and those hallucinations – were still evident in my hoarse throat and troubled mind.

I waited until Holmes reappeared with the burning lamp in tow and then walked the few feet to the arbour to sit rather heavily on the moss-covered seat, trying to catch my breath and banish my own demons that had haunted my minutes under that awful substance's usage.

After dashing to the cliffs and tossing the lamp over the side, Holmes dropped wearily into the seat beside me, glancing at me worriedly.

"Are you all right?"

I nodded and cleared my throat hoarsely, very glad to see that the redness had faded a good deal from his eyes and his manner and voice were returning to normality.

"I never thought I would say this, Holmes," I said, offering him a slightly unsteady smile, "but I should much prefer you use your other drug as opposed to that one, whatever it was."

He started violently, casting a wary glance at me to see if I were being facetious. When he saw my small grin he returned it with a short barking laugh.

"Never again, Watson," he sighed at last, leaning back and reaching into his pocket for his pipe.

I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. What exactly had he meant by that ambiguous statement?

* * *

**_To be concluded - only the fluffy eppie left! Reviews are always appreciated._**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Many thanks to all you who gave me such positive feedback about this thing – I freely confess it's been a monster to write, and such volatile subject matter too. Your encouragement makes me glad I took the trouble to do it, though; so I hope you all enjoy the last chapter, and many thanks once again. Until a plot bunny strikes me, ta-ta for now and God bless!**

* * *

_**Watson**_

For probably fifteen minutes we sat in the arbour, taking in the lovely cool atmosphere and letting the clean sea breeze blow away the remaining effects of that horrible hallucinatory drug. But the longer we sat, the more curious I grew about whatever it was that I knew Sherlock Holmes was keeping from me.

I was about to ask him outright, when Dr. Leon Sterndale came walking up the path towards us. Holmes sprang up to intercept him, as the atmosphere in the cottage was still rather close, and I sighed wearily. My questions would have to wait, as they always did.

I refer readers to my story I have entitled _The Adventure of the Devil's Foot_ for the full details of the mystery's denouement which took place at this point in my narrative, for I have no wish to repeat the entire sequence of events in this particular tale; the more important solution of a more important mystery is the subject of this particular foray into what Holmes delights in terming my 'incurable romanticism'.

Sterndale left with both our blessings, and Holmes seemed unusually contemplative after he had left, walking back to the cottage without a word to me and throwing open all the windows as well as the back door to aid the place in airing out completely.

I remained outside with my thoughts, trying to decide what to do.

Holmes despised my prying into his private affairs – but I desperately wanted to know what had become of his drug supply and where it was. I also wondered what exactly had happened to effect such a change in him. It could not be the case, for he had been in this wonderfully…_free_, for lack of a better word, mood early in the morning _before_ Roundhay had come to see us.

I frowned in thought, but my musing was interrupted by a violent peal of thunder and I realised the sun had disappeared behind the clouds and a mist was starting to fill the air. I beat a hasty retreat to the cottage to find that there remained no more traces of the drug we had so foolhardily exposed ourselves to, and we could close the windows now in preparation for the approaching storm.

Holmes poured us both a glass of water, and I gratefully drained mine, still a little shaky from the whole tiring ordeal.

He disappeared without a word into his bedroom, probably to get into his dressing gown if I had to guess, and I tiredly made my way to my room as well, rubbing my temples absently as I considered whether or not to broach the subject of his drug's disappearance to my friend.

I was saved from further debate when he knocked lightly on my door and poked his head in – I had deduced correctly, he was in his dressing gown.

"May I?"

"Since when has Sherlock Holmes started knocking and _asking_ if he can come into a room?" I asked amusedly, shrugging out of my jacket and into my own dressing-gown, closing my window against the heavy rain.

Holmes snorted a laugh, but I could see that he was nervous about something from the way he kept his hands in his pockets and his unlit pipe clenched between his teeth. He seated himself in the chair beside my writing desk and I took the chair next to him, waiting expectantly.

Waiting for nothing, apparently. He sat there, absently fiddling with the pen and inkwell I had left on the polished wood, for the better part of five minutes. Finally, as I reached over and acted as if I were going to roll the top down on the desk he jumped slightly and turned a guilty smile to me.

"What's troubling you, Holmes? If it's that infernal Devil's Foot affair, do try to put it from your mind," I said gently.

He frowned. "I am trying, Watson, but I doubt I shall ever forget what a stupid fool I was – I could have murdered us both!"

"I admit I can think of less painful ways I would prefer to go, should you ever take it into your head to try such a thing again," I replied, keeping a straight face with difficulty.

I felt a sense of relief when he broke into a howl of welcome laughter.

"Wherever did you pick up that morbid sense of humour, my dear Watson?"

"Probably a side-effect of living with the world's only consulting detective for too many years," I responded dryly.

He chortled softly and leant back in his chair, glancing over to meet my eyes.

"I – have something for you, Watson," he said hesitantly, running a finger round his collar with nervousness, dropping his gaze for a moment.

I sat up expectantly, watching him, my curiousity very much aroused.

Holmes tugged on his collar urgently, then finally dropped his twitching hand back to his pocket, pulling out a familiar leather case and shoving it across the desk to me.

I recognised the Moroccan case at once – it had been empty in his bedroom for the last few days. Why was he…

I glanced at him, but he was looking at some invisible spot on the wall and so I turned my attentions back to the object in my hands, finally sliding the catch and opening the case.

It was no longer empty.

I curiously picked up the one syringe it contained and held it to the light – then stopped in astonishment.

It was filled…with _sand_?

"Holmes?" I asked breathlessly.

"You will remember I had two of them, Watson," he said slowly, carefully avoiding meeting my eyes.

"Yes?"

He was silent, and I could see his eyes rapidly darting from object to object in the room, an obvious sign that he was in deep thought, deciding what he wanted to say. Finally he turned back to me, a sudden warmth filling his normally cold grey eyes as he looked at me.

"Two things were instrumental in my decision, Watson, and so I have divided the proof of my sincerity to both of them," he said slowly, tapping the syringe with a rather unsteady finger. "This one is in your hands, the other buried in the sand where you found me on the beach the other morning."

I was speechless – that was why he had been so happy the other morning, he had been out there burying that devilish drug and its instruments!

I must have been sitting there with my mouth partly open, for Holmes glanced at me and laughed softly.

"Don't tell me you of all people haven't a word to say? And you, a writer?"

"Wh-when I get my breath back," I gasped, the sudden joy in realising exactly what he meant in his gift to me spreading over me like a warm wave to fill my heart.

He chuckled, then met my eyes a little shyly, a firm strong glimmer of pride shining through them at what he had done – and on his own too; I had no part in the final decision, it had been all his doing and no one else's.

When I finally found my voice I said as much, congratulating him in a voice that I wished could be more steady but was impossible for it to be in that situation.

"No, Watson," he said firmly, laying a strong hand on my arm, "you entirely under-rate yourself. I owe you my life, for what you did that very first night as well as this afternoon due to my stupidity, but –" He halted for a moment, searching for the correct words. "But also for giving me back a measure of my life by your support – there is no possible way I – I should have done this without you, and that is the honest truth, my dear fellow. I had to have been the very devil himself for you to deal with."

"I won't deny that," I said a little shakily, "but it was well worth it, I assure you."

The corners of his eyes crinkled in a genuine smile as he patted my arm in a rare gesture of affection.

"Well, you brought me back, you know, and I shan't forget it this time, I give you my word," he said, then stopped, realising what he had said. "Or actually, I shall swear it on _your_ word, since it is rather more trustworthy," he went on ruefully.

I laughed aloud at that, feeling the back of my eyes stinging.

"Welcome back, old fellow," I said sincerely.

He smiled, withdrawing his hand to reach once more into his pocket and pulling out that journal I had practically forced upon him over a week ago.

"I have something else to show you," he said hesitantly, flipping nervously through the pages.

"Oh?" I tried to peek over his arm and he pulled the book back, shooing me off with a grin and a swat as if I were a pesky insect.

"Well, hurry up!"

"Patience, my dear Watson, does not seem to be one of your virtues."

"And speed does not seem to be one of yours."

"Touché. Ah."

He evidently had found the page he wanted, for he sat there for a moment looking at it with an odd half-smile before glancing back up at me.

"Holmes, don't be so infuriating!" I exclaimed, my curiousity now thoroughly piqued.

He smiled and shoved the book over the desk at me, then turned his nervous fingers to drumming on the desk-top while I picked it up and stared at the simple sketch in wonder, my breath suddenly catching in my throat.

"Do you – do you like it?"

"It's wonderful," I said softly, gazing at the simple black-and-white drawing of the two of us standing on what I could recognise immediately as the Cornish beach where he had buried the last traces of that infernal drug. The sun was rising behind us, and every wave-cap and gull were perfectly traced round us as it had been that gorgeous morning. And the detailing was flawless, down to the woolen scarf I had worn that morning and the smile on his face as he had greeted me that day.

The entire thing spread over two pages, and I could not imagine the time and effort that had to have gone into it, and without my ever knowing he was sketching me.

"When in the world did you find the time to do this?" I gasped in wonder.

"It wasn't easy, I assure you; took five days and I only finished it last night. I had to sketch you when you weren't aware of it – that night that you could not stay awake when I was discussing the Tregennis case with you so animatedly, remember?" he replied with a shy grin, flushing slightly under my awe-struck gaze, "so if you look half-asleep, that is why – I couldn't get you to keep your eyes open!"

I laughed in delight, feeling a lump come into my throat at this astounding gesture.

"I'll frame it as soon as we get back to Baker Street," I said softly, finally tearing my eyes from the drawing back to my friend, who was once again staring in some embarrassment at that invisible spot on the opposite wall.

He snorted, but flushed with pleasure at my praise and squirmed a bit in his chair in obvious discomfort at all this emotional display. Time to bring us both back to normality.

"I have to say, I much prefer your drawings to that Paget chap's in the _Strand Magazine_," I said mischievously, inspecting our figures in the sketch more closely.

Holmes threw back his head and laughed outright at that, and I joined him a moment later.

"You should illustrate for my stories from now on!" I said suddenly.

The look of abject horror on his face sent me into another peal of laughter.

"I'll _die_ before attaching my name to such romantic drivel!"

"Holmes." I said dryly. "Think about what you just said."

He paused, his eyes narrowing as he did so. Then he scowled good-naturedly.

"You know what I mean! _You_ may put my name in there all you like but I shan't be publicly endorsing the rubbish!" He pulled a very childish face and rose to his feet.

"You know, we could have rather a lot of fun with this newly-discovered talent of yours," I said slyly as we exited my bedroom and headed for the fire, the storm rattling our windows but not able to dispel the warmth within.

"Eh?"

"Come on, let me see you draw Lestrade."

"What?"

"Gregson?"

"Watson!"

"How about Mycroft?"

"You'd need a bigger notebook."

"Not very kind of you, Holmes; he has been rather an encouragement to me of late," I said, trying not to laugh at the barb as Holmes snickered and we sat by the glowing fire.

"I own that distinct privilege of all younger brothers - to be annoying when I so choose."

"You don't just _own_ it, you have a monopoly on it!"

Holmes merely laughed and lit his pipe, curling up comfortably in his armchair.

"Tell me something, Watson?"

"Mmhm?" I asked, lighting my own pipe.

"Moore Agar. Was that scene in Baker Street a performance?"

I cleared my throat.

"Well, yes and no – he told me he had something up his sleeve but refused to tell me what. I was just as surprised to see him as you were. That reminds me, I must thank him when we get back home."

"I must as well," Holmes mused, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe.

For a long while we sat there in a perfect, comfortable silence befitting two men who have known each other for as long as we had and had come through so many things together. Then finally Holmes broke the silence hesitantly.

"Did I ever actually say thank you, Watson?" he asked softly.

I was startled by the unusually emotive question and smiled at him.

"You know you're being frightfully candid, for you anyway, Holmes."

He snorted, shooting me a sly look. "Well you were the one that told me irrationality is a by-product of a cocaine overdose, Watson. I am not responsible for anything I said or did this week."

"You are not going to be able to use that excuse from now on, Holmes," I warned happily.

"I'll think of something."

"I don't doubt it!"

Holmes arose as the temperature dropped to put more coal on the fire and then went for two warming drinks, motioning me to remain where I was when I would have risen and helped. He returned in a few moments and handed a glass to me before sitting back in his chair by mine.

"Well," he said with another of those enigmatic smiles, "you are the man of letters, Doctor. What shall we drink to?"

I thought briefly of the events of the past weeks; the battle for control that had raged in that most formidable mind, of the final triumph that I and this solitude had managed to help in bringing about, of the power of true self-sacrificing love and tolerance and support, of the strength of a friendship that would not disintegrate even under this kind of pressure, of the deadly habit that had been broken and the syringe that would forever remain buried on the Cornish coasts.

Then I turned back to my waiting friend, smiling and touching the rim of my glass to his.

"To demons broken and buried, may they remain so for the rest of time," I said quietly, and Sherlock Holmes nodded in complete accord.

* * *

**To the previous reviewer who mentioned Holmes's drawings probably being better than Sidney Paget's – cyber kudos for guessing what I had already planned from the beginning as part of the finale!**

_**Thanks for reading – hope you enjoyed it!**_


End file.
